


The Duelers

by Mostly_Harmony



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Black Hermione Granger, Bottom Harry Potter, Community: snape_potter, HP: EWE, M/M, Male Slash, Not Epilogue Compliant, Severus Snape Lives, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Top Severus Snape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-03-10
Packaged: 2019-03-16 17:56:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 38,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13641480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mostly_Harmony/pseuds/Mostly_Harmony
Summary: Harry is famous for defeating Voldemort, and for his subsequent mental breakdown that drove him into the Forbidden Forest for nearly a decade.Severus Snape survived Nagini’s fatal bite by use of an anti-venom he had prepared years in advance. He became famous for his role in defeating Voldemort, but fame was meaningless to him. He returned to his old role as Potions Master at Hogwarts. In the prime of his life he seemed content to live in relative seclusion - the hero of Slytherin house but nothing more.When Harry returns to Hogwarts as a Professor and begins a project with Severus to map the plants and creatures of the Forbidden Forest, neither of them realise what it will lead to...(This is a remastering of Sherwood Smith’s beautiful set of books - Crown Duel)





	1. Leaving the Forest

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Dear Diary](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4749806) by [AWickedMemory (ReadyPlayerZero)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReadyPlayerZero/pseuds/AWickedMemory). 
  * In response to a prompt by [slashwriter (Trinket)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trinket/pseuds/slashwriter) in the [SnarryAlltheWay](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/SnarryAlltheWay) collection. 



> **Prompt:**  
>  _You're home now, not alone now._ _These arms are here to hold you._
> 
> This fic is a remix of Sherwood Smith’s fantastic fantasy Crown Duel. All the best wording and plot lines are hers! The characters are JK Rowling’s. Nothing much is mine, except the pleasure of piecing together a new story from old favourites...

 Not many people knew exactly what the Covenant was. The legends still existed of course, and for people like Hermione, who had read every history of the Forbidden Forest, they were interesting stories with little applicability to daily life.

 But for Harry, after nearly a decade of living in the forest, they had become a story woven into his very existence. The Covenant had to do with wood — and with magic. In a forest this size, that harboured millions of magical creatures of all kinds, Magic, Fire and Wood were not things to be trifled with. The pixies and the doxies for all their mischievousness, understood this. The witches and wizards did not. 

  Long before the Forest had become Forbidden, it was inhabited by the Tree People. Centuries ago there had been mountains, and wide rivers in the Forest, where now they had shrank to hills and creeks. And there, among the common plants, were the remarkable color trees: huge, long-lived goldenwoods and bluewoods and greenwoods and redwoods, so named because the grains of these trees ran rich with gleaming colors. And they were tended by the Tree People, who looked and moved more like trees than people.

   Then witches and wizards came and sought the wood for its magical properties. They drove the Tree People from their homes, and nearly caused a disaster by their greed. All the inhabitants of the Forest rose up against wizardkind, fighting with all the magic they possessed. Peace was made, only when the witches and wizards made a Covenant, to never cut down and remove the trees. It was then that the Forest became Forbidden. It was understood, by those in the Forest, that if wizardkind invaded their woods ever again, to steal the trees, war would be declared.

  The shutter in the closest window creaked a warning. Harry flung himself across the room to snatch up a neat pile of parchments before the wind could suck them up and out into the stormy day. Dead leaves whispered on the floor boards as the stiff breeze eddied through the chamber. Something crashed to the floor and Harry noticed with surprise that it was the empty bowl from his breakfast that he had forgotten to put away. 

  It wasn’t as though he was too busy to clean up after himself, or close shutters when it got windy, it was just that he was— perpetually distracted. It was the distractions that kept him sane. Although he knew very few people believed in his sanity. Harry Potter the Hermit had become a legend, just like the Covenant. Admittedly, his legend was of more recent duration and was extremely well known.

 There was jingle of bells from the forest floor.

 “Harry?”

 The voice was Hermione’s. Harry moved out on to the veranda of his cabin, floating in the treetops, and looked down. “Hallo ‘Mione, Is it Sunday already?”

 The calm and collected woman on the ground, with her sleek hair, perfect teeth and smooth black skin, bore little resemblance to the bushy haired, buck teethed and pimpled adolescent that he had met sixteen years earlier. Her voice was as brisk as ever. “No, Harry, it’s Tuesday. But I need you.” She grimaced at the broomstick in her well manicured hand.

 Harry realised that it must be something important to induce Hermione to make the broom ride through the Forest to his cabin more than once a week. He rolled up the parchments and left them inside his doorway, grabbing his broom and flying down to meet her on the Forest floor. The wind and storm disappeared. The damp, quiet ground below was protected by layer upon layer of canopies. Landing beside his friend, he submitted to a brief hug.  
 “ – it’s McGonagall,” said Hermione. “We don’t think she’ll last the day, and she wants to see you. You’d better be quick.”  
   
 Being quick was easier for Harry than Hermione. He leaned forward on his broom and soon left her far behind. As Headmistress of Hogwarts, McGonagall had remained at her rooms in the school even after her condition worsened to the point that she couldn’t walk. She had never fully recovered from spell damage from the war, but she had still managed to lead the school through one more generation of students from first year to graduation.  
 Arriving at the castle Harry didn’t bother with the entrance. Instead, he flew upwards through the rain; round and round the turrets to the window of McGonagall’s room. He cast a spell at the window to open it and flew through, with a minimum of water damage accompanying him.

 McGonagall wasn’t alone. A tall, powerful man, —with long black hair hanging in curtains around a face like a bird of prey — was kneeling at her bedside, talking quietly to her. In school, he had seemed so old, as ancient as the other Professors. Looking at him now Harry realised with a start that he must have really been quite young. Not much older than what Harry was now. Wizards usually lived for such a long time, that Severus Snape was now in his prime.

As he looked up Harry felt the rush of humiliation that usually accompanied his encounters with this wizard. Unlike Harry, Snape had coped gracefully with the hero status and worship he had received after the war. He hadn’t changed at all. His survival, aided by the anti-venom that he had ingested prior to Nagini’s near-fatal bite, was as legendary as Harry Potter’s hermitude. He had accepted the awards and accolades for his sacrifices as a spy in the war, impassively.

 “Goodbye, Minerva.” He said now, rising to his feet.  
 “Goodbye, Severus... and thank-you... for everything.”  
 Snape leaned in and kissed her gently on the forehead. Looking up at Harry with unreadable, cold black eyes. He left without another word.

 “He still won’t take the Headmaster position.” said McGonagall with a sigh. Her voice was just a whisper. “He can be as stubborn as you, in his own way, Harry.”  
 She smiled at him and patted the chair beside her bed, weakly.  
 “Professor---”  
 Her wrinkled face was tilted towards him, there was death in her eyes and it wrenched Harry’s heart.

 “Professor Galdran... will become Headmaster... that isn’t good for Hogwarts, but no-one else is as powerful or influential. I fear for the school...”  
 “What do you want me to do, Professor?” Harry asked, numbly.  
 “I want you to come back, Harry. Hermione is a Professor here now, and others of your friends. Hogwarts has always been your home.”  
 “I don’t know if I can?  I — I feel... almost... normal, in the Forest.”  
 McGonagall looked into his eyes. She spoke with increasing difficulty.  
 “Your time in the Forest is coming to an end, Potter.”  
 The use of his surname made him feel like he was a teenager again, rather than a twenty-seven year old man. 

 “Your parents would not have wanted you to live out your days in isolation. Also... you are needed here...”  
 “But —“  
 She struggled up onto one elbow. Her breath wheezed in and out, her skin became blotchy with the effort, but her voice was stronger. “Promise me, Potter. Hagrid and Maxine are taking their kids to France for a year. They’ve offered you their cottage, so you don’t feel hemmed in. You’ll still be close to the Forest. But we need you now, to teach Care of Magical Creatures, just for one year.”

 “Really?  I’m hardly qualified to be a Professor.”  
 “You probably know more about magical creatures, from your studies in the last nine years, than any other wizard of this generation.”  
 Harry stared at her. He didn’t know what to say. Or think. He hadn’t considered leaving the Forest in at least five years. Not since his last disastrous attempt to re-enter society.  
 “Promise me.” she said, grasping his hands in her gnarled fingers. “Promise. You’re needed here Potter! You must promise me!”

 “I promise,” Harry said quickly. “Now you have to rest, Professor.”  
 “It is too late for that...” she said, but she lay back on her pillows. Her eyes closed, her fingers loosened.  
 “You’re a good boy, Harry. A good man. Listen to Severus, I didn’t for so long, to my detriment. He can be trusted.”  
 “I do trust him, Professor McGonagall, I don’t understand how anyone couldn’t, now.”  
 He stood helplessly by the bed as her breathing became laboured. It slowed, and then stopped. Harry blinked back tears, he took her thin hands — still warm, and laid them on her frail chest.

 Harry pressed the heels of his palms into his burning eyes and bit back a sob. There was nothing else he could do now. He had made a ludicrous promise, he hadn’t lasted a week back in society — let alone an entire year, of teaching children, no less. But it didn’t matter that no one else had heard the request or the promise. For Harry, McGonagall’s last wish was as binding as an Unbreakable Vow.  

  His first impulse was to run and hide. But there were things to be done. People to be faced. And afterwards, when everything was arranged and the date of his return was fixed, he fled back to the Forest.

  To the hillside where he could hear the reed flutes and music of the night. The magical creatures were emerging, some even looking a little like walking trees in the moonlight, and wordlessly, accompanied by their strange music —which was a kind of magic in itself— Harry danced to somber cadence, sharing his news, and grief, and the goodbye, in a way that the Forest understood.


	2. The Map

 At the beginning of the new school term, Harry was seated on the raised dais with the rest of the Hogwarts staff. It was a surreal and uncomfortable feeling. So many eyes were on him, and even Hermione’s calm presence to his right didn’t help to reduce the itchy crawling of anxiety under his skin. He could feel one of his eyes twitching involuntarily from time to time. With careful fingers he focused on rolling up the map he’d been perusing. He was peripherally aware of the other staff talking in low voices, but no-one tried to engage him in conversation until he had stowed the map away. Then, thankfully, the opportunity for conversation was short, as another year’s Sorting began.

 “Welcome students!” There came a grating voice from the centre of the table where a portly man was standing up and pasting on a jovial expression. “The time has come for another sorting! Then the start-of-term banquet will begin.”

      Looking around the Great Hall at the thousands and thousands of candles that were floating in midair over the four long student tables, laid with glittering golden plates and goblets. Professor Flitwick was leading the first years up to the dais, so that they came to a halt in a line facing the other students, with the teachers behind them. The hundreds of faces staring at them looked like pale lanterns in the flickering candlelight. Dotted here and there among the students, the ghosts shone misty silver. As the Sorting Hat began its song, Harry looked upward and saw a velvety black ceiling dotted with stars. He felt like he could nearly see the black interlacing of leaves of the Forest, through which the rainbow-hued stars made a pattern of heedless beauty. The stars, the hills, the rustling trees, the silent testimony to the shortsighted futility of the humans who struggled below.

 The Sorting Hat finished its song, and Harry refocused his gaze on the children who would be some of his students. Professor Flitwick now stepped forward holding a long roll of parchment.  
      “When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted,” he said. “Ainsley, Harry!”  
      A red-faced boy with blonde hair stumbled out of line, and pulled on the hat.

 “RAVENCLAW!”  
 The boy cast a longing glance at the Gryffindor table, and another in Harry’s direction. Harry shifted uncomfortably. As the Sorting progressed he was shocked by the amount of Harry’s, Severus’ and Hermione’s there were amongst this new generation. Controlling his patience, and biting his tongue he listened for the names that he didn’t recognise for a part in the war. He was thankful at least, that there didn’t seem to be any stigma hanging over those students sorted into Slytherin.

            As another child stepped forward, “Hafiz, Abdul,” the names began to wash over him, merging together: Sara and Sam, Daisy and Dan, Gwen who looked like a miniature Dursley, and Stan - looking as malnourished as Harry had been. Jeremy who was short, Sandeep who was tall; Ying and Yasmine, Jacob and Joe. Then came the name he was dreading to hear; “Lupin, Theodore.”

      The small boy seating himself on the stool was nearly double the size he had been when Harry had last seen him, five years earlier. Heart in his throat, Harry watched him, the little person with Lupin’s grace and Tonks’ multicoloured hair.

      “HUFFLEPUFF!”  
Teddy grinned and made his way over to his house table cheerfully. Harry did his best to tear his gaze away and control the erratic pace of his breath as anxiety and self-incrimination tangled up in him.

      “Weasley, Victoire.”  
The little redhead ran and joined the Ravenclaw table moments later. By the end of the Sorting, Harry’s breathing was shallow and claustrophobic. He was surrounded by more humans than he had seen in the past nine years, and he couldn't stay. 

     "I've got to get out."He leaned in and whispered to Hermione.  
      She looked at him with compassion in her dark eyes. “I’ll come see you before class tomorrow.”  
      “Yeah,” he said shortly, rising to his feet. At the other end of the table he could feel Snape’s eyes on him. Meeting that cold gaze, he knew Snape was seeing Harry’s mother in his wide, dark-lashed, green eyes, and he felt a stab of pain. She had been brave, social, and stunning. And she had died. In the place of her awkward, anti social, scrawny and inept son.

 He avoided Snape’s eyes as he walked past him, but could hear the murmur of his voice as he spoke quietly to another Professor. “Fair enough,” he was saying, amusement attenuating the distinctive drawl, “if we take the time to consider: what kind of expectations can we have of a hermit, who is forced out of hiding.”  
   
 Harry winced. He wanted more than anything to be alone in his cabin in the treetops, far away in the Forest. But there was too much to be done in preparation for the lessons he would teach, to afford him the luxury of a night flight back home.

   
 The following morning, on his way to his classroom, Harry felt his heart sink as he found his path blocked by two men standing the the hallway conversing. Fear, like cold air, swirled in his mind, and he was considering finding another route to the door behind them when the burly, florid faced man spoke, “Good morning, Harry.” He held out his arms wide like he had when welcoming the students at the banquet. 

“Headmaster Galdran, Professor Snape— is there something I can help you with?”  
“No, no, nothing in particular!’ Galdran puffed.  
The lighter-boned man at his side, in his characteristically elegant black robes merely tilted his head in acknowledgment.

“I heard from Professor Grubby Plank that you have made a map of the Forbidden Forest—?” Galdran continued with his forced joviality.  
Harry nodded stiffly— “Uh, yeah— I thought I could kind of — um — base my curriculum off it.”  
“Excellent! Excellent! I’ve asked Severus here, if he will work with you to add to the map all the places that Potions ingredients can be found. This map could become a valuable asset for Hogwarts. Yes, Yes, it could!”

Snape still hadn’t said anything, but continued to study Harry’s face. His black eyes, were intent, but unreadable, the pupils blended into the irises, like a night sky. His leisurely assessment made Harry prickle with a familiar irritation. It seemed that Snape’s war hero status hadn’t changed Harry’s reaction to him. He stared back. Not quite glaring, merely assessing and cataloguing his features. The hawk like nose, the chiseled bones, a long mouth with the deep corners of someone on the verge of a laugh. All this framed by long midnight hair that no longer seemed greasy, the way that Harry remembered it, but thick and shiny. 

As he opened his mouth to speak Harry braced himself for interrogation. And watched Snape’s brows lift as if he recognized this fact, and those mouth corners deepened. Then his face blanked again, his gaze resting on Harry’s with mild interest as he said, “May I see this map?”  
“Uh — yeah, yeah of course...” Harry’s palms began to sweat, as he nervously led Snape into his classroom.  
Gladron headed off down the hallway, leaving the two of them standing in the quiet room.

       “I am very much afraid,” Snape said presently,  
“that you are under the mistaken impression that I am going to treat you like a student again — and I know my treatment of you was not the kind to excite general envy.”  
 “What?” Harry stuttered, scrabbling through his bag, then remembering that he had fixed a large version of the map to the back wall, which would work just as well as a general example.  
 “Permit me to be more explicit. When you were a student here, a decade ago, there was a good deal of hatred between us. I had presumed that was water under the bridge, but if you do not exert yourself to willingly discourse with me it will make for an unpleasant year.”

 Harry stared at him, trying to make sense of what he was saying, “I’m not scared of you, Professor Snape. If that’s what you’re implying?”

 Snape’s eyes narrowed slightly, but his words were affable, “Severus. Now that we are colleagues it would be appropriate to use first names.”

 Harry’s heart thudded strangely. He hurried up to the back of the room, muttering, “It might not be that easy...” Speaking at a normal volume he said, instead: “This is a large and somewhat simplified version of the map I’ve been working on. I can make you a copy of the original, but it will take a bit of time. It’s a bit too complicated for a generalised duplication charm.”

       Scrutinising him unreadably, Snape glided between the desks and came to a stop beside him. He looked up at the map and followed his eyes with a hand, touching it gently. His hand was long fingered, slim in form; soft and pale, except for the callused palm of one who had ridden a broomstick regularly. He turned back to Harry, still with that air of mild interest—as if he had all the time in the world. 

 “This is very —impressive...”  
 “I _have _been working on it for a long time.” Harry snapped, making some effort to keep his tone neutral. It didn’t seem he had succeeded because Snape’s brows lifted again. They were long and winged, which contributed to that air of faint question.  
      “I wasn’t being facetious. I am impressed. And I have never believed in your abject stupidity, Potter, just your general ignorance.“ He walked toward the door, with leonine grace, then paused and said over his shoulder, "I will wait for you to make a copy of the original and then we shall discuss it. Good luck with your lessons today. I realise that Minerva coerced you into this, and I fear you have an unpleasant year ahead of you.”__

____

      With that he pushed open the door, and left.

     It turned out that Snape’s prediction was somewhat of an understatement. The months that followed were not just unpleasant, but suffocating, turbulent, exhausting; and managed to erode what little self-respect Harry had left. He never found the time to duplicate the map for Snape and actually managed to avoid seeing him very often. He cooked his own meals in Hagrid’s cottage which felt large and empty without its usual inhabitants. He took nightly flights in the Forest that refreshed and equipped him only enough for the following day.  
     By the time they reached the last day before the Christmas holidays, Harry was feeling nothing more than the desire to retreat to his cabin and ignore all the day’s duties that awaited him. Running late, he decided to run to class under his Invisibility Cloak, avoiding any unnecessary stares or conversations.  
     As he crossed the Entrance Hall he heard the sound of his name and stopped instinctively.  
      “I don’t think so... Professor Potter is a bit odd, for sure, but I reckon I learned more in one term from him than I ever did from one of the text books we’ve been assigned”  
     “I’m not saying he’s not a good teacher, I just reckon he’s a bit weird! You know... like how one of his eyes goes twitchy now and then. Or how he stops in the middle of a sentence and turns his back on the class — like he’s pretending we’re not there...”  
     “Have you seen the tapping thing he does? It’s like he can’t sit still... he wouldn’t do well in Professor Granger’s class!” The cluster of sixth years burst out laughing and launched into a reminiscence about one of their friends that Hermione had given detention for ‘excessive twitching and inattention’. 

       Harry made his way into his classroom and pulled off his cloak. The comments about his oddities weren’t surprising. But he was shocked to hear that some of them considered him to be a good Professor. He sat down at his desk in something of a daze. He hadn’t really stopped to think about it. But as the months has passed, his anxieties had become more and more manageable, and amidst the horrifying moments of ineptitude, there had definitely been moments that he had felt a sense of satisfaction in teaching.  
       
     He was still processing this revelation that afternoon when he farewelled his final class, and began sorting out the cluttered stacks of parchment littering his desk. The door behind him opened.  
     “Hermione?” he said, without looking up. “You’ll never believe what I realised today...”

     There was a moment of hesitation, then a deep voice drawled, “It desolates me to disappoint you, but Hermione is not here. I do believe that her departure took place earlier in the day, precipitated by a family emergency of some kind?”

         Harry had forgotten that she had left at lunch time to go and spend time with her father, who was unwell. A residual embarrassment made him grimace but the hint of amusement in Snape’s voice irritated him more, and he found himself retorting.  
“Glad that you’re desolated... at least...”

     As a crack it was pretty weak, but the amusement deepened in the light voice, “I have not come to waste your precious time, Potter. I came to suggest that perhaps we could work on the map over the Christmas break... unless you have holiday plans?” His eyebrow was raised and there was the faintest sneer in his voice.

      Harry could feel his hackles rising further, “as a matter of fact, I do have plans.”  
      Snape strolled in a leisurely way past his desk and began reading through the messy scribble on the board, his back to Harry. “Oh? And what plans might they be?”

         “None of your business, I’m sure!” Harry spluttered. “It’s my time off! What’ve you got to do with it?”  
      Snape didn’t answer, just turned to the windows on the far side of the room that Harry had enchanted to give a magnificent birds eye view of the Forbidden Forest. He walked over to look out and Harry had a swift impression of an eagle about to fly down from its nest. His finely carved profile silhouetted by slanting rays of sun, his tall figure hidden by the gentle folds of good quality cloth that draped and flattered his muscular frame.

         Harry suddenly felt acutely aware of how ridiculous he must look. Ramshackle hair, scrawny body which had never really recovered from being malnourished in his formative years, shabby ill fitting robes he had bought five years ago and worn nearly every day since.  
      “I assumed that you would be returning to the Forest for this period... and that it might be a good time to work on the map together.”  
      “Why would I take you into the Forest with me?” said Harry truculently. “I’m going to get away from everyone!”

         Snape sat down in one of the window seats, and gazed out as though Harry hadn’t spoken. Harry huffed and glared ineffectually at him. A long silence drew out, punctuated only by the whisper of the parchments that Harry was shoving into his bag in increasingly random order.  
      “I’m endeavouring to find the best way—“ Snape began, “—to work together on this project. Perhaps it’s necessary to inform you that we are dealing with quite a volatile and unpredictable Headmaster. If he were to realise that we have not even begun on the task he has set us, he will go out of his way to make life difficult—“

         “And why should you care about that?” Harry returned, feeling anger welling up inside him, coming from a place he had thought was long buried. “You never cared about how difficult my life was in the past! —In fact YOU went out of your way to make _my _life difficult!!”__


	3. Prophecy

      Snape stood slowly. His face totally expressionless in the face of Harry’s outburst.”How can I possibly make amends if everything I do, or say, is understood as evil in intent?” He said mildly, as though commenting on the weather.

      It took Harry several moments to process what he had just said. His bubbling anger receded slightly in the face of his utter shock. “You want to —make amends?”  
      Snape walked past him, and stopped in the doorway... “Whether I want to or not, you’ll never know if you keep hating me with the same vigour as you did when you were a child...” 

      Harry was left staring at the empty door frame. As the seconds ticked past he found himself scowling. He was coming to the unsettling conviction that he was destined to misjudge Snape at every turn. He had spent so many years believing him to be Voldemort's spy, a liar and untrustworthy villain, that it became hard to change his emotional reactions and assumptions, even after he knew the truth.

     He remembered the horrible days after Dumbledore’s death, when his hatred of Snape had been at its peak. At that time he’d seen the quality that allowed Snape to spying on others as dishonourable and doubleminded. He had believed blatant transparency was the only courage. What he saw now was the grim courage it had taken to act Snape’s part as Voldemort’s servant, all the time planning to change things with the least amount of damage to innocent people. And whenever Harry had come crashing into his plans, he’d included him as much as he could in his net of safety. Harry’s mistakes and stupidity, his thick headedness when it came to Occlumency, he saw miserably now, they were his own fault.

     He had to respect what Snape had done. And it seemed that he wanted to repair the hatred of the past. What he might think of Harry personally, was impossible to say. Not that it mattered of course. But he couldn’t take him into the Forest, and share his cabin. The thought of Snape in the place of his retreat and hermitage made a great shiver travel up his spine. He couldn’t pinpoint why he felt such a level of discomfort. He just knew it would be awful.

     So he left Hogwarts as quickly as he could, flying through the Forest at breakneck speed. Revelling in the challenge as the Forest grew denser, as he followed familiar,nearly undetectable, routes through the branches or the thick undergrowth. Letting himself fully relax in the way he had been unable to do in months. 

     By the time he arrived back at his cabin his limbs were shaking from the exertion of pushing his broomstick so hard, but a peace and calm was flooding through him. He flew upwards onto the porch that wrapped around his cabin where it floated high in the top of the canopy of leaves. On either side of his cabin stretched the branches of two of the most ancient, gnarled and beautiful trees in the Forest. One was a massive yew and the other a twisted sweet chestnut. Both were hundreds of years old and looked as though they cradled his floating cabin in loving arms.

     When he returned to Hagrid’s cottage the night before the new school term began, Hermione was waiting for him. She sat at the table, her face stormy.  
      “I can NOT believe you, Harry Potter!” said Hermione as soon as he walked through the door. “Why will you not work with Severus? Honestly! You’d think you still suspect him of being a Death Eater, the way you avoid him! “

      “What? Just because I don’t want to go on holidays with him -” Harry began, looking lightheartedly. Hermione glared - he was obviously on the wrong track with that argument, her browns were lowered and arms crossed. “Sorry,” said Harry quickly. “But, you’re acting like me not wanting to spend time with someone is unusual? Me, Hermione!”

      “Harry,” said Hermione, and her tone changed to one of brisk instruction, “maybe you haven’t realised this. But you’ve proved to yourself this last term, that you don’t have to be shut away from the world anymore. You’ve built relationships with your students. You’ve taught an excellent curriculum. You’ve overcome so many of your anxieties.”

      “Merlin’s beard! Hermione,” said Harry suddenly, unable to contain himself, “I haven’t overcome them! I’m just — I dunno — dealing with it. At least, when it’s just a class of kids, I can manage...”  
      “But don’t you see?” said Hermione emphatically. “That’s just the start…not the end. When McGonagall asked you to come back to Hogwarts, it wasn’t just because you’d be a good Professor.”  
      Harry looked curiously at her. With a meaningful look she said, “Don’t you remember what she said about the changes in leadership?”

      “Ummm…that Snape didn’t want to do it,” said Harry in response. “Is that what you mean?”  
      “Come on, think,” she said, rolling her eyes.  
      “She was... worried?” said Harry, shrugging his shoulders.  
      “She was VERY worried,” Hermione said. “Galdran is up to something, and it won’t be good for Hogwarts, but no-one can figure out what it is. I think Severus is the most likely to find out, but...”  
      She looked dumbstruck when Harry shrugged again.  
      “But - he is doing it alone, isn’t he? Seriously? You mean - you haven’t noticed?”  
      “Noticed what? That Snape has basically gone back to his life before the war?” asked Harry. “…what else do you think is happening?”  
      He teetered for a moment on the verge of mentioning his weird comment about “making amends,” but couldn't bring himself to make Hermione more upset with him for turning Snape away than she was.

      “That’s just it,” said Hermione exasperated. “He has gone back to his old life completely! But now he doesn’t have Dumbledore! He has no friends, he doesn’t let anyone close to him. He has been working very hard ever since the end of the fighting. Too hard, some say. He came straight back to Hogwarts, took on the Potions Master role and the DADA role too. He seldom sleeps. He’s either teaching, or brewing, or marking papers, or else his lamps are burning half the night in his Residence Wing. He’s needs friends! needs to enjoy his days — with people who aren’t either terrified of him or in awe of him. He also needs people to trust! People who will help him figure out what Galdran is up to."

      Harry gaped at her. Then he couldn’t hold back a derisive snort. “Oh, Hermione! You can’t seriously be saying that MCGonagall thought I would be Snape’s — friend?” He tried to hold back his laughter but it hissed through his teeth, and he gave in to the hilarity, sinking into the seat across from her.  
      “Maybe not his friend,” Hermione said stiffly, pursing her lips. She looked across at him consideringly, then heaved a huge sigh. “McGonagall was against telling you this...”  
      Harry’s smile vanished. “Tell me what?”  
      Hermione ignored the question. She looked out towards the dark windows, pensively. “She said that you had lived half your life under a prophecy, and it was probably part of what drove you away...that once the prophecy was fulfilled you didn’t see a place for yourself.”  
      “I think I just didn’t want to face the place for me that everyone else was expecting, or hoping for,” said Harry, quietly. “But, what are you alluding to?”  
      “If you knew there was a prophecy?” Hermione asked. “Would you want to know it?”  
      “It helped a bit the first time,” said Harry, shrugging. “I guess so.”  
      “Alright!” said Hermione, her expression clearing. “I held it back, out of respect for McGonagall. But I honestly don’t think she considered how bloody stubborn and single minded you can be!”  
      “Alright, alright,” said Harry. “That’ll do...”  
      “It was Professor Trelawney again,” said Hermione. “And you know how I feel about her predictions.”  
      “Yeah, I know,” said Harry, but there was a leaden feeling in his stomach as he waited to hear what she would say next.

      “Well,” said Hermione, in an I-don't-think-you're-going-to-cope-with-this sort of voice, “McGonagall and I were in the staff room. We were talking quietly about some of the strange things that Deputy Headmaster Galdran had been saying lately.…She was worried, and tired.…And we were just about to leave the room when Sybil dropped her cup. It shattered on the ground and she went into a sort of trance…”  
      “I don’t know if I want to know after all,” said Harry. “This doesn’t sound like an uplifting story.”

      Hermione just shook her head at him, and continued. “Then, she spoke in a weird voice, and said:  
      _When the peace begins to crumble,_  
_and the evil ones gather,_  
_The hermit will leave his tree,_  
_and the potion maker his cauldron,_  
_The time approaches,_  
_when two battered souls united,_  
_Bring about reconciliation,_  
_Only then can the spreading evil be subdued,_  
_Only then can conflict find serene repose.”_

__


	4. The Gift

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a brief mention in this chapter of Ginny’s ‘goodbye speech’ after the Battle of Hogwarts. I’ve written that as a separate fic from her perspective: “Burning Your Bridges” http://archiveofourown.org/works/13692816

  Was this what his life would be? A decade of hiding, followed by being forced into a chain of events outside his control? His mind flickered back, briefly to his years in the cupboard. It was the first time he had viewed his retreat from the wizarding world in that light. But in many ways, the past decade had been much like his ten years of living in a cupboard. Hiding.

  Harry stared at Hermione, as though he had been silenced by a sudden blow. He was brought back to himself when Crookshanks, mewing, jumped up onto his chair and attempted to paw at Harry’s head.  
  “So... you want me to try to... what? Be ‘united’ with Snape?” he asked, a trifle belligerently.  
  Seeing that he hadn’t rejected the possibility outright, Hermione leaned forward eagerly. “No, not so extreme, just — I think you should move into your staff quarters in the castle. Stop hiding in this cottage between classes. Go to meals, get to know the staff, get an idea of what is going on here. It’s all very subtle and under the surface.”

  There was another pause in which Harry was pretty sure they were thinking the same thing: subtlety had never been his forte.  
  ”And what about the Snape stuff?” he muttered finally.  
  “Make him a copy of your map! You don’t have to work on it together yet, but he needs to be seen to be working on it to gain Galdran’s trust.” said Hermione, looking surprised. ”That’s what I’ve been saying all along!”  
  “So you’re NOT expecting me to take him to live with me in the holidays?” said Harry, allowing himself a small grin.  
  “Well. That’s not what I meant.” said Hermione, primly. “Come on, there’s no time like the present. Don’t bother settling in here, I’ll show you your rooms in the castle.”

  The rest of the school year past in a flurry of anxious determination and social interactions followed by retreat. Harry found that to his surprise, he was ready to re-enter the world of people. His anxieties didn’t disappear, but they faded, and overall became so manageable that he rarely noticed them. He still spent the bulk of his social time with Hermione, but he ate his meals with the faculty, spent some breaks in the staff room and even began to feel that some of them could be considered his friends. He knew that the friendship needed to go both ways, and he put in an effort to be a friend to those that he felt comfortable with, like Neville Longbottom and his wife Nimiar.

  Nimiar, or Nee as she preferred to be called, was a comfortable, peaceful sort of person who never seemed to put her expectations on Harry the way others unconsciously did. She had wide set brown eyes, a dimpled smile and a profusion of brown curly hair that, unlike Hermione, she made no attempt to control. Harry could completely understand why Neville had fallen in love with her, and though he had long since abandoned as impossible ‘love’ for himself, it was comforting to watch their easy affection.

    The one person that he studiously avoided was Snape. All his old anxieties seemed to come to the fore whenever the tall, elegant wizard in heel-length black robes, familiar dark eyes and long black hair was was nearby. Harry’s movements would become clumsy, or awkward. In that other professor’s presence he was rendered acutely conscious of all his failings, and continually embarrassed himself. So he made the map, sent it by owl, and was careful to rarely be anywhere near Snape for the rest of the year.

  He told himself that it was for that reason — rarity — that their only one-on-one encounter was so burned into his memory.

  Hermione had left him alone in the library, one day, as soon as Snape had entered, commenting loudly on the book Harry was searching for, so that he couldn’t make a cowardly retreat. He continued perusing the shelves, cursing Hermione’s total disregard as he went. Madam Pince wasn’t there, only Snape, tall and imposing in dark blue robes embroidered with midnight black, which—Harry realized as he glanced once at him—was the exact same shade as Snape’s thick hair. He said nothing as he Summoned a book, but there was mild question in the space between his black eyes and his long dark brows when he caught Harry’s glance.

  Harry grimaced. A weird feeling tightened the back of his neck. The next time he looked up Snape had risen and was looking at some books in the same aisle. When the other man raised his hands and said, “I am unarmed.” Harry realized he was glaring. 

  “I hate people creeping up behind me,” he muttered, inanely.

  Snape glanced at the twenty paces or so of floor between them, then up at the shelves, taking down a book with a blue cover, then trying the next one along.  
Was he ridiculing Harry in his mind? Why did he make no comment? Harry folded his arms and waited for either satire or condescension.

   When Snape spoke, the subject took Harry by surprise. “Did Dumbledore confide in you as to how he damaged his hand?”  
  “Not explicitly,” Harry said reluctantly, feeling the old grief threatening to oppress him. “No more than what he said to you about it.”  
  He immediately regretted alluding to the memories that Snape had shared with him. He often wondered —did Snape know he was going to survive the snakebite? If he didn’t —did he regret sharing such intimate memories with Harry in his moment of weakness? He couldn’t see Snape’s face. Only his back and the long dark hair, and the elegant fingers as he plucked another book off its shelf.  
  “Do you know the reason of his falling out with Grindelwald back in the day?“  
  “Grindelwald?” said Harry loudly. His voice was much too combative, and his cheeks were flushing crimson at his overreaction.  
  Snape’s voice was calm, quiet, always with that faint drawl as if he chose his words with care. “It might not be significant.”

  This effectively ended the conversation. When he had retreated to the end of the row. He turned around and studied Harry. The length of the room lay between them. “I was hoping you would honour me with a few moments of discourse.”

  “About what?” Harry snapped, flinching inwardly at his instinctively grating tone.  
  “I feel obliged to point out,” he said conversationally, as though Harry had been encouraging and polite. “That an obvious constraint, every time we are in each other’s company... has not gone unnoticed.” 

  “I promise you, I have nothing against you!' said Harry quickly.  
  Snape smiled faintly, “Please, permit me to express my profound gladness.”  
  Harry eyed him askance, looking for the old traces of snide mockery. All he sensed was humour as Snape continued. “What concerns me though, is the individuals who seek to taste the ambrosia of power, without the bitter taste of responsibility. There are those who seek us out because we are considered powerful, or key players in life’s drama — if you will. They will wish to capitalise on any hint of enmity between us. There is one person in particular who I believe sees you as my enemy... and I don’t doubt that she will attempt to exploit you.”

  Harry’s temper flared, as bright as an Incendio charm. “So you think I’m stupid enough to lend myself to the schemes of troublemakers, for the sake of making trouble? Is that what you think?” he demanded.  
  “I don’t believe you’d swallow their blandishments, but you’ll still be approached if you seem even passively my enemy. There are those who will exert themselves to inspire you to a more active role... Can you tell me,” he said slowly, “why you seem to still harbour your original resentment against me?”

  Several ideas — slimy Snape, sneaky and cruel, petty and vindictive — flowed into Harry’s mind to be instantly dismissed. Snape was very much the same as ever, the only difference being that he was rarely sneering now. Instead of perpetually grim with moments of nastiness, he was simply unreadable. Quiet, polite, considered, intelligent. Harry struggled to find an answer, gazing unseeingly at the books in front of him.

  After the silence grew protracted, he peeked at Snape from beneath his lashes, half expecting that he would have left. He hadn’t moved. His attitude was not impatient, and his gaze was on Harry’s hands, which were restlessly tapping against his thighs. Snape’s expression was again reflective.  
  “I don’t know,” Harry said finally. “I don’t know.”

  There was a pause, then he said, “I appreciate your honesty.” He gave Harry a polite nod, a brief smile, and left. They did not speak again. And the school year passed.

  After a month in the Forest during the summer holidays, Harry found that he was actually missing the bustle of the castle, and the company of his friends. He packed up and flew back, several days before the end of July. As he walked into the Staff Wing, he was struck again by how impressive it was. He was treading up the broad, shallow steps toward a pair of carved double doors. They opened for him with a wave of his wand, and he passed through into a spacious entryway with a complicated mosaic on the floor: a night sky with all the planets and stars, with the sun at the center. Light shafted down from stained-glass windows above, overlaying the mosaic with glowing golds and blues.

  Somehow, in that magic that was uniquely Hogwarts, although there were doors into this entryway from a variety of levels within the Castle, the Staff Quarters were somehow on the ground floor. The rooms allotted to Harry were the first to the right of a long tiled hallway. There was a little sitting room, a study, and a bedroom with a narrow, tiled stairway that led to the baths, below the first level. A cunningly hidden, even more narrow stairway led up to the communal staff lounge.

  All three windows overlooked a stream-fed pool surrounded by trees. The rooms were done in soft greens; the tables were antique wood of a golden shade, the cushions and curtains and hangings all pale gold satin stitched with tiny green ivy and white blossoms. It was sometimes ironic to Harry that he had spent so many years hating “Slytherin” green, and now his decorations were all in that colour, and he loved it. It felt calming, and as close to the forest as he could get within the castle, apart from the enchanted window in his classroom.

  When he was settled he wandered through the walled staff garden through to Nev and Nee’s suite, which was across from his. Their rooms were done in shades of rose, and they overlooked a flower garden. They had been talking quietly over cups of tea; when he arrived they leapt up and welcomed him back with smiles and hugs.

  “What’s the news?” he said, dropping onto the cushion of his favourite chair, and only then noticing the third occupant of the sitting room.  
  “Do you have a hello for me?” Snape said with a faint smile as he reached out and poured a fourth cup of tea in a leisurely way.  
  “Certainly,” Harry said in a voice so determinedly polite it sounded false even to his own ears. “It’s good to see you all. I’ve enjoyed my time in the forest but... well, it’s good to be back too.”  
  He picked up his tea and was startled to find that it was made perfectly, with exactly the right splash of milk to sugar ratio. He managed to only spill a small amount down his shirt during the conversation, but as soon as he was able to, he jumped to his feet and made a hasty retreat.

  It was a pleasant day, fine and warm, but with a cool breeze that blew the scent of summer flowers through the garden. Relaxing, the further he got from Snape, Harry strolled over a little footbridge that spanned the stream, then followed the path around a moonflower bed into a clearing beside a tree-sheltered pool.  
   The tableau he came upon was like a very fine picture. A beautiful lady sat on a bench, her blue robes artfully spread at her feet, and ribbons and gems in her curling black hair. Watched by three wizards, she was feeding bits of something to the fish in the shallow pool. Harry gained only hazy impressions of two of the men—both familiar from the faculty—because his eyes were drawn to the tallest, a man of powerful build, long waving dark hair, and a rakish smile. Dressed in deep blue robes with crimson and gold embroidery, he leaned negligently against a tree. 

  When the path Harry was on intersected with their patch of garden, he looked up. His brown eyes were direct, and interested, and very much amused. He was the first person that Harry had felt a glimmer of attraction to, since Ginny gave him her goodbye speech the morning after the Battle of Hogwarts. “Professor Harry Potter! What an honour to run into you already! We’ve heard so much about you!”

  “Well,” Harry said , “if the stories were complimentary, they weren’t true.”  
  The wizards laughed. But the witch’s perfect smile did not change at all. “Surely you are overly modest, Mr Potter. I am Tamara Chamadis the new Potions Master.”

  Harry gave a start of surprise, “Oh? Snape’s not teaching Potions this year?”  
  Tamara flicked her wand with a flick of her wrist, and a piece of bread sprang from her basket over the light-dappled water of the pool. With a musical plash, a golden fish leaped into the air and snapped at the bread, diving neatly into the water.  
   “Severus will still be teaching the seventh years,” the lady said with a gentle laugh, raising her eyes to the tall man, who smiled down at her, “I’m much too intimidated to do that in my first year out teaching. But with him as my mentor I’m sure I’ll be fine after a year or so.”

  A strange, unsettled feeling ran through Harry at that comment. Instinct made him wary; there were undercurrents here that needed thinking out. He looked into her eyes for a fraction of a second, and the residual, ever-present anxiety come tapping up his body and through his fingers. The tall man, propped an elegantly booted foot on an edge of the bench and leaned an arm across his knee as he smiled at Harry. 

  “And I am Savona ... I’m a Professor of History, transferred from Beauxbatons... although I do believe I will still be sharing some classes with a Professor Binns... ”  
  “Well, I imagine you’ll have everyone clamouring to be your students if they have a choice,” Harry said, striving for a light tone, and realising too late that it could be construed as flirtatious. Again the wizards all laughed. “Professor Binns is dead boring.” he clarified.

  “Ah a pun,” said one of the nondescript wizards with a condescending chuckle.

  Harry winced, “Uh, yeah. Sorry about that... anyway... I’m off to get settled in... nice to see you guys...” he nodded, and strode off as quickly as he could. 

  Thankfully the next few days were less awkward. Hermione was back from her holiday and she spent hours with Harry talking through their plans and programs for the different year levels. Neville came for a walk in the forest with him to find some new plants for his Herbology classes. Nee came and sat with him and drank copious cups of tea in companionable silence. Overall, he was glad he had returned and woke up on his birthday feeling hopeful and festive.  

  It was clear that no-one else had remembered his birthday. The day progressed in the usual holiday routine, and eventually Harry went to his room for the night, a little down hearted that none of his friends had even thought to wish him happy birthday. He was just about to get into bed when an owl came tapping on his window. He waved his wand to open the owl door, and she flew through and landed on the headboard. Perching patiently as he removed a package from her foot.

  Instead of a letter, it was an exquisite porcelain sphere. Dark blue, with silver stars all over it, and cunningly painted so that when he looked closer it gave the illusion of depth—as if he stared deeply into the sky. Opening it with reverent care, he found a ring sitting on a white silk nest. Usually Harry thought that men wearing rings looked either ostentatious or effeminate, but this one, a smooth sapphire circle fit perfectly on his longest finger, and looked right.

  Bemused, he wondered who would have given him such a gift. It looked ancient and expensive, yet subtle and stylish. Someone had remembered his birthday, but had not sent a card or a message along, and used a common barn owl that could have come from anywhere.

  He thought of Luna Lovegood, and her love of unusual surprises. But he doubted she knew what day of the week it was most of the time. It was most likely from Hermione, and he would hear the explanation tomorrow. 

  Puzzled but content, he fell asleep with his ring hand crafted against his cheek.


	5. Magorian

      For those who called Hogwarts home all year around, breakfast was served in the Staff Lounge during the summer, rather than in the Great Hall. Some of the older Professors chose to have their tea and toast in bed. But there were less and less very old Professors. In recent years, the faculty had come to comprise of relatively young Professors, with many of the older ones who had taught when Harry was a student, accepting positions at the Ministry of Magic, or on the Wizengamot. Breakfast was spread out on the sideboard and people trickled through at various times to partake at their own pace, but it was often a social time. Harry preferred to come early, when the light of from the window was still the blue light of early dawn. Nimiar was the only other one who liked to breakfast so early.  
            “It's been a fairly quiet month,” Nee told Harry the next morning. “Galdran went to London, you went to the Forest of-course. Most people went away for at least a week or two and are just starting to trickle back now. The new Professors seemed to arrive as soon as they got their letters of appointment.”

“I met them, on my first day back,“ said Harry.  
      “So you’ve met the famous Professor Tamara Chamadis! What do you think of her?”  
      “Well, she is very pretty,” he said. “But...I don’t know. Somehow she embodies everything that I ran away from when I lived in the Forest...”  
      “Fair enough.” Nee nodded. “Then I guess it’s safe for me to say—at risk of appearing a detestable gossip—watch out.”  
      Harry fiddled restlessly with his ring. “All right. But I don’t understand why.”  
      “She is ambitious,” Nee said with care. “She and I were in the same year at Beauxbatons... along with Savona... we were the only British transfers, so I thought we’d be close... but Tamara never had the time for anyone of low status. I was always quiet, and not at all brilliant. She had more time for Savona because he was the best sportsman in our year, and ridiculously popular.”

      “What kind of status does she look for?” Harry asked, thinking of her comments about Snape. He glanced up at the door as though they would open to reveal the subject of his thoughts.  
      Nee hesitated again. “Well... she was engaged to the wizard who was next in line to be the French Minister of Magic... but he was passed over for another person, and she took the job here. It remains to be seen what her motives are.”

      “Wow, that’s bit rough —“ said Harry slowly.  
      Nee’s lips tightened in an uncharacteristic frown. “I’m pretty sure her interest in ordinary wizards extends only to the image of them bowing down to her.”  
      Harry whistled. “That’s a pretty comprehensive judgment.”  
      “Well, perhaps I‘m exaggerating a bit,” she said contritely. “Maybe that was a bit extreme. But she wants to be always with the cleverest, most famous and most respected people around, anyone lesser is only useful as someone to show her deference and respect.”  
      “She seemed friendly enough to me, but she was most interested in talking about Snape.” said Harry.  
      “Oh. That would make sense. Severus’ Potions discoveries these past five years have been very influential. He’s world famous now. Not to mention his heroism in the war...”  
      Finding that the familiar antsy, unsettled feeling was crawling up his spine, Harry quickly changed the subject.  
      “What do you make of this, Nee?” he asked, stretching out his right hand and turning it so that the sapphire encircling his finger flashed mutely in the early light. “Someone sent me an anonymous gift last night... for my birthday...”

      Her eyes widened. “Oh, Harry, we forgot! I’m so sorry!” Then her gaze narrowed on the ring. “Are you sure it’s safe?”  
      Harry shrugged. He tugged it off his finger and passed it to her. She examined it with pursed lips and then looked up at him with a gleam of curiosity in her eyes. “Harry... do you know what this is?”  
      “Ummm...” he took it back and slid it onto his finger. “Should I?”  
      “It’s an ancient wizarding tradition... so old I’m not sure anyone in our generation has used it. My Grandmother had one. They’re called a Kinseth Ring. Heirlooms which are passed from one family to another when an alliance is made.”

      Harry gave her a dismayed look, “like an engagement ring?”  
      She smiled. “Not always. But worn on the middle finger it usually symbolises passion... each finger has a different meaning. It could definitely be a gift from an admirer. Someone who is too shy to flirt with you in person?”  
      “Well... I guessed that could be it,” he said with an unsteady laugh. “Or it could be a plot? Some kind of ring version of a love potion?”  
      Nee shook her head, “that’s the only thing it CAN’T be. Rings that old, and of that kind — a solid circle made of a single gemstone... the Kinseth Rings have an enchantment on them ensuring purity of intent. They can only be given by someone who has a pure intent towards the receiver, whether love, or friendship, or forgiveness, or admiration... It could even just be a ‘thank-you’ from someone whose loved ones you saved in the war. A very expensive thank-you though.”  
      Harry looked down at his hand. “What do you think I should do?”

      Nee looked contemplative. “Do some research. Find out what a sapphire Kinseth implies. Then, you can put it away, which of course will end the question. Or you can wear it in public, to signify your approval, and see if anyone claims it, or even looks conscious.“

——--

      That’s what Harry did. He made his way to the hushed library. He Summoned a book on Kinseth Rings and discovered that — in that ancient art — sapphire symbolised idealism, versatility and intuition. This seemed to demonstrate some understanding of Harry’s personality, he thought ruefully. 

There was nothing to suggest that any harm could come of accepting the gift. Though they were rarely anonymously given. He returned the book to its shelf and made his way to his favourite quiet alcove. He found Hermione there, as tapping each little square on a large timetable with her wand so that it flashed a different colour according to its Professor and subject.  
      “Hi Harry,” said Hermione, “have a look at this nd tell me if you’re happy with how I’ve scheduled Care Of Magical Creatures, now that you’ll be sharing some of the workload with Hagrid again.”  
      “Uh, sure,” he said, as she handed him the timetable, “I’m a bit nervous about them coming back... if I’m honest. Hagrid was one of the people I disappointed the most.”  
      “He’s also one of the people that will think the world of you, no matter what you do.” Hermione said bracingly.

      Harry wasn’t so certain but he fought off his gloomy feelings and perused the schedule. He found himself tapping on Professor Snape’s name and following what he would be doing this year. Just so I can avoid him — he told himself.  
      “It’s good,” said Harry, tapping the timetable to close it. “Also... someone gave me a Kinseth Ring.”  
      The smile faded from Hermione’s face.  
”Really” she said warily. “Who?”

“That’s the thing. I don’t know. It came by an anonymous owl.”  
      “That’s odd,” said Hermione, frowning. “Usually they were used in courtship or to resolve a feud.”  
      Harry shook his head, laughing. “How is it that you always know everything?” He leaned over and coaxed Crookshanks out from under Hermione's chair to give him a scratch.  
      “Are you going to reply?” asked Hermione tentatively. ”Will you wear it? Or wait and see if someone noticed?”

“Wha— oh, yeah, I think I’ll wear it,” said Harry, “but I don’t think I could reply. How can I, when I don’t know who to send it to?”  
      “There’s a ‘Return to Sender’ type spell you can cast on your envelope... Hmmm... let me think. I can find it for you. Of course they could have put up a blocking spell.. but if not it should work.”  
      “But I’m not sure what to say.” said Harry.  
      “You’re curious though aren’t you? Maybe you can’t ask who they are, but, well, if they write back to a letter maybe you’ll get some clues!” said Hermione firmly, stalking off to research the spell immediately.

———

Before Harry was able to attempt the spell that Hermione had found him, he had an unexpected encounter. He was walking towards Hagrid’s cottage, when, seemingly out of the nowhere, Severus Snape suddenly appeared. “Mr. Potter. A moment of your time?”  
      Harry’s heart began drumming in his chest, like a frightened bird at a glass window. “Uh... um... yeah... what do you need.”  
      “I‘ve received an urgent message from Magorian, asking that I come and speak with him in a particular place — the Copse of the Big Bellied Oak.” said Snape.

“That’s two hour flight at least,” said Harry, pointing into the darkening sky. “And it looks like a storm is coming.“  
      “It does,” said Snape, though he sounded a little hesitant now. “Which is why… Hermione suggested that I ask you to accompany me. Without the option of Apparition, the Forest is a risky place to go alone... as I’m sure you know.”  
      Harry flushed. He felt sure that was a veiled criticism of the irrational and risky existence he had led in the Forest these past years, but he wasn’t sure how to respond. “And you going now, then, by broom?' Harry asked him.

“Yes. I hope you don’t find this presumptuous, but Hermione gave me your broom,” said Snape calmly. Harry looked down at Snape’s hands and noticed for the first time that the other man was carrying two brooms, one of which was very familiar. 

Hermione had well and truly boxed him in this time. He wanted to refuse outright, but Snape was right. Following an unknown and unconfirmed summons into the Forest alone was extremely dangerous. Snape would be much safer with Harry at his side. Cursing Hermione inwardly he found himself stuttering: “Alright... but if we’re f-f-flying together... let’s make it a race.”

“If you like...” Snape answered quietly, as Harry’s left eye started to twitch, and his right hand began tapping noisily against his thigh. “A wager perhaps…"  
      Harry’s fingers stilled. He grasped hold of the thought of a competitive bargain, to soothe his anxieties about being alone with Snape for at least four hours of flying. “Yes! Perfect! What’ll be the stake?”  
      It would need to be something ridiculous — something humiliating... He didn’t wait for Snape to speak. “A kiss!” As soon as the words were out of his mouth he froze. He wasn’t sure where that thought had come from and he already felt humiliation crawling through him at the thought of Snape’s reaction.  
      But the dark eyes were inscrutable. “Winner can choose how to collect on the wager?” he clarified.  
      Harry swallowed. His mouth suddenly dry. “Yep.”  
      “Done.” he said, and a slow smile, bright with challenge, emerged on his serious face.

The frantic beating of Harry’s heart suddenly ceased altogether. Only restarting when Snape threw him the broom, and mounted his own in one elegant motion. Lured by the thought of speed, the dense undergrowth, and winning, Harry didn’t hesitate. He flew fast on Snape’s heels into the dim, dank depth of the Forest. 

They were soon flying high in the tree canopy which blocked out all light from the undergrowth. Harry revelled in the familiar weight of unseen eyes watching them. Nobody really knew what the Hill Folk were like. Except they themselves. Especially now that the age old Forest mountains had dwindled to nothing more than hills in a Forest weighed down by encroaching humanity. But Harry had been privileged enough to encounter them, only after many years of living alone in the Forest and learning to tune in to the land around him.

      Now if he narrowed his eyes, drawing forth the green-lit images, he could nearly see them. They were hard to describe. Human in shape, though that might be assumed for the viewer, he wondered if animals saw them in animal form. Taller. And though they didn’t move at all like humans, they were very graceful. They could also be very still. You could walk right by them and not notice their presence, unless they moved. They were mortal, but as long lived as trees. With faces that were hard to remember, like the exact pattern of bark on a tree. And their eyes were like those of an animagus. The Hill Folk’s eyes reminded him of Sirius’, brown and aware.

Before long the heavy clouds hanging over the trees broke open, and the rain poured down through the canopy. Harry’s awareness turned to the cold rain on his chin and the exhilaration of speed as he cut through the thick damp air. He was soon soaked to the bone, but wasn’t ready to leave the upper branches of the trees that they wove through, for the more protected, but more congested undergrowth.

He looked over at Snape who was at the same pace still, but had obviously thought to wear a waterproof cloak, or else do some kind of spellwork to keep his body dry. The long black cloak flowed out behind him and his hair flew in the same arc, thick and black. He would have looked menacing, if it weren’t for the peaceful look of enjoyment on his face as he sped through the trees, finding the paths between their branches without reducing speed.  
      Looking too long at him made Harry’s jittery nerves return. He made the split second decision to sprint ahead and see how much of a lead he could get. Weaving faster and faster, finding familiar routes he left Snape so far behind that he eventually had to pull up and look back uncertainly. The point of his accompaniment was for safety, and now he had gone and lost the one he was meant to be protecting.  
      There was nothing left to do but fly as quickly as possible to the rendezvous point and hope that Snape would meet him there soon. He dropped lower through the tree canopies as he approached. The air was suddenly full of the sound of hooves; the Forest floor was trembling; around fifty centaurs rode up to encircle the Big Bellied Oak tree, their weapons pointing outward into the Forest as though a threat might be following them.

Harry wrenched his broom downwards and landed at the base of the tree only to find that Snape was already there. He emerged from the cavernous opening into the tree’s belly and with an unreadable glance at Harry, immediately turned his attention to the chestnut bodied centaur who had broken away from the circle of fifty. “Magorian… I greet you. I come here at your request. I honour your race of ancient people, and wish to discourse with you.”


	6. Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Parts of this chapter come from my favourite parts of another Sherwood Smith’s book ‘The Trouble with Kings’

Harry had a sudden flashback to the encounter that he and Hermione had had with the centaurs in the time of Umbridge’s reign over Hogwarts. How differently the conversation had begun, and how ignorant they had been of the customs of anyone outside of wizardkind. It was such a long time ago.  
He watched as Snape skilfully navigated the delicate conversation with Magorian. There was so much twisting and turning in the conversation, that Harry was finding it hard to follow, let alone decipher why Magorian had called for Snape. He found himself getting distracted from the words and focusing on Snape; his long elegant fingers moving gracefully as he gestured, his words carefully chosen and his face was as expressive as a stone. A stone in the dead of winter, thought Harry momentarily, that was how much warmth there was in his countenance. His hair, black as a moonless night, was only slightly damp despite the rain. His onyx eyes were glowing under the long black brows. Harry watched the movements of his long mouth set in a face made square by sharp cheekbones and jaw line. He didn’t seem to have aged at all in the past decade. He didn’t seem to notice Harry’s scrutiny, but when it seemed as though the conversation was coming to a close, his black eyes darted in Harry’s direction, and Harry was jerked back to attention.  
Magorian was bowing his head in a salute of respect. “Potionmaker. Hermit. We leave these matters in your hands,” he said, in his deeply vibrating voice. Then with neighing and stomping the circle disintegrated and reformed into a fight group that galloped out into the forest without looking back.

Harry gaped at the space they had vacated. “Potionmaker and hermit? How did...” he trailed off, not particularly wanting to discuss the prophecy. “I did NOT understand a word of that! Why is talking to centaurs such a tangled process? It’s impossible to tell what is past, present or future!”

The top of Harry’s head still only came to Snape’s shoulder. The years of malnutrition as a child had kept his stature small, but an active personality kept him wiry. He wondered for a moment what Snape did to maintain his rangy frame. He definitely didn’t seem to find the arduous physicality of flying for two hours at all strenuous. 

The relentless downpour above was trickling all the way down to the forest floor in drips and drops instead of gushing torrents. Harry had to blink away rain drops as he looked up at Snape, who glanced down at him inquiringly. There was contained laughter in his eyes, and the deepened groove at the corner of his lips. “It’s true, their conversation is difficult to follow. I will need to watch this memory several times in order to decipher Magorian’s true purpose in asking me to come.”

“Those brief references to an enemy. That’s one confusion. The entanglement of relatives who dislike one another is another — and might even be from long ago. Then there’s colourwoods dilemma, which is: do they still exist in the Forest? Are they as powerful magically as he hinted? If they are — and that was a present tense issue — why has no-one attempted to exploit them for a thousand years? All his comments seemed to be double-edged, like there was a difference between his tone and his manner... it makes me feel, oh, that the ground is uneven. He’s not the only one. Some of the staff at Hogwarts have that skill. Is it a skill?” Harry had rambled on, mixing questions with observations until he realized he wasn’t getting any answers. He felt his face flushing all the way to his hairline, but Snape seemed unperturbed by his outburst.  
“Using weapons is a skill.” Snape waved a finger in the air. “Words and tones and mannerisms can be weapons. You don’t see the cuts. But you feel them.”  
“One of the reasons I avoid people. When people use it on me, I don’t know whether to react to the manner or to the words, and I end up standing there like a fence post.” said Harry.

“You were about as fast as a fence post, Potter,” he murmured, “I do believe I won the race.”

Harry reached up and scrubbed at his untidy mop of dripping hair, unable to hold back a ferocious glare. “You must have cheated!” he accuseed. “I was way ahead of you! How did you get here before me?”  
“If you had not rushed off, I would have shown you.” he retorted, unsmiling, but with a touch of mild humour in his face. “Come now, I’ll show you the shortcut now.”  
He turned gracefully on his heel and went gliding back into the Big Bellied Oak. The inside of the tree was large and round, like a circular antechamber, just large enough to hold two or three adults. Harry had been there before and sat down on the sandy floor, drinking in the calm, protective feeling of shelter that the tree provided. Snape did not sit down. Instead he tapped his fingers along the smooth wooden interior until his fingers stopped on a small, unobtrusive knot of wood.  
He pressed the knot and the timber melted away to reveal a smooth tunnel going down under the ground, large enough to fly through. Glancing back over his shoulder, he cast a Lumos spell, disappeared into the tunnel and flew away. Harry leapt onto his broom and  
did the same. But no matter how fast he flew, Snape remained in the lead, at least several broom lengths ahead. After half an hour Harry slackened his pace and the gap between them widened, so that he could only just see the cloaked figure ahead of him.  
He knew they must be nearing the end of the tunnel, for they had flown together for at least an hour before splitting off into separate routes. And soon he saw an opening ahead into the gloomy half light of dusk in the Forest. As Snape exited the tunnel ahead of him, there was a flash of bright light outside and roaring sound.

Smoke?  
Harry flew faster. He was still weighed down by swaths of his heavy, sodden cloak. His brain yammered fire? Smoke?  
He launched stupidly straight out the opening into the Forest, and immediately had to fly to the left, to avoid a spark of fire. Tall trees not far away whooshed and writhed, gigantic torches radiating hot, bright flame.  
Danger!  
Just above, the burning branches weakened in the curling blasts of heat-wind, raining bits of flaming foliage on the wild grasses on either side of him.  
He flew forward, turning away from the flames. Then lurched to a stop when he discerned a human figure lying in the path of the flames.  
The glaring, ruddy light shone on a face.  
Snape.  
A deep, neck-tingling whoosh overhead made Harry throw his head back in horror. A fiery branch tumbled down, landing with a crash of upward spiraling sparks not ten paces behind him.  
Snape lay, either dead or unconscious, one arm flung out toward his ruined broom, blood splashed across him. Harry didn’t hesitate, his innards tight with anguish. “Aguamenti,” he screamed, over and over, with no effect, as burning twigs rained down around them.  
Harry sprang to Snape, grabbed one of his wrists, and tugged. He only shifted. So he grabbed at the thick cloak, but the dead weight of his body was impossible to shift. Another branch crashed ten paces away, sending up a whirling fury of sparks.  
“Don’t you dare be dead!” Harry shouted, yanking at the cloak. His hands trembled as he thought to cast a lightening spell, over Snape’s tall frame, slid his hand under Snape’s back, trying to roll him onto the broom. But even with the lighter weight, his body was unwieldy and impossible to balance on the broom with him. “Shit!”

There was no time to think or plan, he dropped his broom, with a pang of regret, scooped Snape up in his arms and staggered away.  
And just in time. A great branch crashed down where they had been. Cursing colourfully, Harry kept moving until he stumbled over an unseen root, lost his grip and they both rolled down a sharp incline. He fetched up hard against a pine tree and lay for a moment trying to catch his breath. Darkness shadowed the land around around them; it was raining. Only the great fire gave light, though the fire began to hiss and send up steam. Harry got to his hands and knees. He scooped up Snape once again and trying to find his bearings in the dim undergrowth began trudging in the direction of his cabin. The firelight beat with ruddy glare from behind them, but slowly that receded into the distance and only the light of Harry’s wand showed the way.  
Snape moaned and shifted briefly in his arms. His eyes flickered open and stared in mute surprise into Harry’s eyes. Snape’s face was bleached of colour. He closed his eyes. His face was stiff with congealed mud. He walked on. Slowly finding the tracks through the woods and familiar landmarks. When Snape opened his eyes again, Harry met his gaze. He did not speak.  
He shifted, with a moan, and sank back into unconsciousness. After what felt like days, they arrived at the patch of dry, cleared ground beneath Harry’s treetop cabin. The loss of his broom made things more difficult, but Harry had made sure there was an alternative way up into the cabin. At the foot of one tree between the ancient, interlocked roots, grass and rock that formed the base, there was a coil of enchanted rope hidden in a small dip.  
By the time Harry managed to haul them both up onto his wrap around porch, he was exhausted, shivering from his soaked clothes, and incredibly thirsty. But there was no time to deal with the thirst: Snape was so still and cold in his arms that Harry was terrified that his injuries were more substantial than a simple bump on the head. He staggered inside, with his burden. The cold wind and the rain abated, though his shivering did not. Just above was the steady thunder of rain on the roof. 

He carried Snape into his own bedroom and lay him down gently on the bed. Casting spells to vanish congealed mud and blood from his body, and dry them both thoroughly. He had not come across the source of the blood, and what little healing knowledge he had, told him it was important to check for wounds. Taking a deep breath, he reached out to undo Snape’s cloak, and remove his robes, exposing a blood soaked white shirt beneath.

Lying back on the pillows, he came back to consciousness as Harry shifted and undressed him, with trembling fingers. His left hand came up and clasped below his right armpit. A sluggish ooze of blood was sleeping between the long pale fingers. His eyes opened.

“You’re bleeding to death.” said Harry, gruffly.  
“Most likely.” His voice was thready and weak, barely audible.  
“I don’t know any healing spells.” Harry’s voice came out sounding accusing.  
The black eyes flicked to the open door of the bedroom, and beyond. There was the briefest narrowing of humour in his eyes. “So leave me — alone.”  
“Well, don’t you want some help?”  
One shoulder lifted in a slight shrug, as if to say: what can you do?  
“I guess, I should try to staunch the flow of blood. Um...” He dashed out into the kitchen and gathered up some clean cloths. Wadding them up and folding them into a thick pad, he returned to the bedroom and advanced on Snape, whose eyes didn’t leave his face. Trying not to focus on Snape’s bare, muscled chest, he pressed the pad onto the wound, and brushed away the black locks that were straggling down into the gore. Their fingers brushed as Snape moved to wedge the cloth in tightly. A spasm of pain tightened his features.  
“My wand?”  
Harry winced, “I’m not sure where it is. Your broom was smashed to pieces... I think your wand may have been the same. Did you see what happened?”  
“Ambush.”  
“Who did it?”  
“Someone enterprising...” he whispered with a brief, pained half-smile. “They left as soon as they’d taken me out.”  
Harry looked down at his blood-streaked flesh, the self mockery in his black eyes, and nausea clawed at his insides at the thought of what would have happened if he had not accompanied Snape. “Uh... you can use my wand... to do a healing spell. Sorry I didn’t think of it til now...”  
He did not answer. Only gave Harry a faint incredulous smile, and accepted the wand in his fingers. “Vulnera Sanentur! Tergeo!”  
The jagged gash began to knit together, the blood vanished, and Snape’s fingers fell away wearily. Snape’s black hair hung down limply in his face, looking more like the bedraggled hair Harry remembered from his school days, rather than the shiny, silky curtain that he was used to seeing these days. The spellwork seemed to have exhausted him, and his eyes drifted shut, closing out the world.

Harry was roused suddenly to how exhausted he himself was, and he could do no more than stumble forward and collapse on the bed, dropping into a deep sleep.


	7. Ambush

    When Harry woke, weak light was filtering into the room, and someone was opening a window, so that chill air puffed in, pure, cold, pine scented, and very damp. He sat up abruptly, but his memory of where he was and what had happened was slower to return.

  A dark-haired man moved away from the window and through the open bedroom door where he knelt before a small fire that leapt and glowed. He checked the water pot and cast leaves into it. The wonderful smell of listerblossoms filled the air. Firelight gleamed along the complicated pattern of his blackweave boots, and on his well-made black robes. Why was Severus Snape in his cabin? 

  Even as the question formed in his mind, the events and physical exertions, of the previous day came rushing back. With a groan, he slid his legs over the side of the bed, his muscles protesting, and stood. Snape’s manner, his movements, his gestures, betrayed the sort of control that spies are trained into. But when he looked across at Harry there was some kind of emotion in his face, not usually seen, that Harry couldn’t interpret.

  Then it was gone. Snape tucked his cloak more securely about himself, and poured out steeped leaf from a billycan over the fire. “I’ve made myself at home,” he said. Turning Harry’s attention to a pair of covered stoneware pots.  
  “Soup in one. Bread in the other.”  
    Harry helped himself to the soup, and took a sip of the steeped leaf, which let off a summery, healing aroma of listerblossom. The bread had a portion missing. It was still warm, having been baked in the ceramic pot. Harry helped himself, then went to sit on the rocking chair to the left of the fireplace.

  “I notice there’s no Floo powder...” said Snape, propping an elbow against the mantle place.

  “No Floo.” Harry grimaced. “I never wanted it connected.” He sipped at his drink, the taste and the warmth felt wonderful.

  Snape nodded briefly. As though he had expected that. He poured some steeped leaf into a large metal mug, and began moving gracefully around the room, surveying his surroundings. Harry tried to view his home through Snape’s eyes: the polished floorboards were well worn and covered in a warm thick rug woven in geometric patterns of birds and bees and berries. There was no dining table, but there was a fine walnut desk against one wall, still strewn with parchments, ink and quills. In the corner a door opened into a tiled bathroom with a sunken tub beside a floor to ceiling window overlooking the forest.

  There was a small kitchen alcove, stocked with non-perishable supplies. And a number of comfortable armchairs grouped around the fire. But the areas that seemed to interest Snape the most were the rounded wall comprised entirely of crammed bookshelves, and the wall where Harry had pasted up map after map of various parts of the Forest.  
    He scrutinised these silently, and Harry used the opportunity to observe him. Their every interaction was, for Harry, overlayed by by vivid childhood memory. He was opaque as he had always been, but Harry suspected that he exerted himself to be opaque. It was his armor against his own harsh life. Whatever his true motivations or desires or feelings, it would be a mistake to assume that because one couldn’t fathom them he had none—or that they were uniformly evil. Especially in the light of his revelation about his deep and abiding love for Lily Evans-Potter.

  Harry had to admit that he had always found the notion of Snape being in love oddly unsettling. He assumed that was because it involved his mother — and perhaps the fact that Harry had believed for so long that he wasn’t capable of it—that he was removed from all human feeling besides the negative ones.

  For some reason, Harry preferred to think of him that way. The surly Professor of his childhood. Anything else was — unnerving. But that thought perplexed him even more. He decided he would contemplate it further later, when Snape was not standing directly in front of him. Feeling nervous twitching beginning, Harry rose from his chair and levitated his dishes into the sink. Without a word to Snape, he took up his woodwind pipes and made his way out onto the porch.

  Within moments of him beginning to play, there came a faint steady humming, an accompaniment from the Forest around him. The rain was still falling in sheets from the tin roof, providing the percussion. When he had first learning this Forest music it had sounded eerie, floating in on the breeze, but now it calmed him. His twitching eye, stopped. His fingers flew purposefully across his instrument. The distant windharps and reed flutes of the Hill Folk became louder and stronger as he continued. 

Beyond the low, polished wooden railings of his porch was a sheer drop to a clearing that was bounded by large trees on every side. The clearing was like a garden to Harry. Shaped like an L, it led to a waterfall in the side of a nearby hilly peak. This garden, like the rest of the undergrowth was bustling with life, and the trees that sheltered them had not been planted in Harry’s lifetime—or even in his grandparents’. Despite the rain, bowtruckles chattered in their hollows, and birds twittered in the trees, and in the distance, the cadenced music of the Hill Folk provided the harmony.

    Harry had drifted into the otherworldly music, when the door behind him opened. Harry looked back. He caught the appraising glance before Snape turned his attention outward to the Forest. When the song came to its natural conclusion Harry stopped playing, and they stood silently for a time, watching the rain. In the calm space following the music Harry found that he was able to converse with Snape without anxiety when he asked:

  “Music. That’s what you do?”  
  “Is that so astonishing?”  
  Slight lift of Snape’s good shoulder. Harry read dismissal in that gesture, as though music was a foreign concept that was unnecessary to define.

  “You think it’s foolish?” said Harry.  
“Does it matter what I think?” countered Snape.

  Good question. Why did his opinion matter? It ought not to matter, not the least bit. Harry found himself saying grumpily, “no it doesn’t matter to me in the least!” 

  “What is there in music that commands your attention?”  
  “That you have to ask that question—” Harry paused. “That you have to ask implies that you find music at best frivolous. Bad music, I’ll agree, is frivolous. Worse, it jars on the spirit. Disharmony—” he shook his head. “Never mind. Good music is an art.”  
  “Art being?”

Was he in truth so ignorant? No, this had always been the way he conversed, asking questions to make his points. Art and potions did seem contradictory ways of life; I could envision him dismissing the arts as irrelevant to the all-consuming passion for usefulness and scientific meaning. Without the usual anxiety to hold him back, Harry said, “There are as many ways to define it as there are forms of art, but the best of it takes skill and insight to create, and it is not merely pleasing to the senses, but can have meaning for us. As individuals. As people.” He stopped. That was usually far more than he said in one conversation.  
  “Go on.”  
  “With music you can tell the truth about human experience, and the experiences of non-humans. When I started to learn, I learnt from the Forest. The Hill Folk showed me that every choice, a shift from key to key, a new melodic line developed counterpoint to a known melody, each becomes a personal, that is, a unique, response to universal experience.”

“What about those who only hear noise?”  
  Harry hesitated, sorting Snape’s words, his tone, his expression. “Noise,” he repeated. “So many would say that, in derision. Accusation. Defense. I don’t have an answer, except for the observation that some people truly are tone deaf. They can’t hear the music of the Hill Folk. Others, well, they haven’t had access to music from childhood, which—this is something else my grandmother told me—is akin to a person who was never taught letters looking at a book and seeing owl scratchings on parchment.” He stopped again.  
  “Go on.”  
  “That’s pretty much all I have to say. For me music is true art, whereas words—I’m not clever with, and in the end they are —at best —artful.”  
Snape gazed past him at the Forest. He couldn’t tell if Snape was thinking, bored, or just wondering when they would be leaving.

  Harry waited. While the rain roared around them, until he realised that Snape wasn’t considering a response. He wasn’t going to respond. The serenity that music had provided was shifting. Harry’s right hand was beginning to tap involuntary on the railing he leaned on. He knew it was time to return to the castle and go their separate ways again. Using a spell to slice a shallow cut in his palm he reached his hand outwards and let the rain wash the blood as it dripped from his hand.


	8. A Letter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Bold is Harry**  
>  _Italics is the Unknown_  
>  ——--  
> Some scenes also from “the Trouble with Kings” by Sherwood Smith

  When the Thestrals, who had come to investigate Harry’s glowing blood, had flown them back to Hogwarts, Harry had returned to his rooms to reflect on the series of events and emotions that he had just been through. He felt like there was an answer hovering just outside his consciousness, but for the life of him he couldn’t figure out why he was so unnerved by the time spent with Snape. After a particularly strange dream the following night, he came to the conclusion that the thought of Snape’s heart felt attachment to Harry’s mother was painful to him. In itself this was more emotional awareness than Harry was usually comfortable with. But he pushed through the jumbled thoughts to the more obvious conclusion. There was a gap in Harry’s life where love could have been.

   And for the first time in years, Harry realised that he wanted to find that sort of love and devotion. How on earth he was to go about it mystified him. Twisting his Kinseth Ring on his middle finger, he decided impulsively that the unknown giver was a good a place as any to start. He took out some parchment, and the original gift egg, and studied the Return to Sender spell that Hermione had found for him.

   It didn’t matter that he had no idea of who had sent it. They could be of any age. Any gender. But at least, they were interested in him. Not for his fame, because an anonymous gift would bring no attention to its giver. Nor would he have to traverse the tricky social environment of double sided words that so confused him. He would see if he could get to know them through the written word, and if that failed, who would even know? Someone who — with pure intent — could keep their identity secret had no reason to reveal their correspondence to anyone.

 So he sat down at his desk and wrote:

**Thank-you for the beautiful ring. From what I have read I understand that the Black Star Sapphire deflects negativity from others, and provides a calm strength in high stress or chaotic situations. Did you know that?**

**If so, it seems you know a little of my current circumstances... and I can always use good friends and advisors for the social world I don’t understand or fit in to. In all honesty, I would prefer discourse to gifts**

  Taking it to the Owlery he wondered if he would see the owl fly out of the school grounds, or into the castle.He waited for some time but the owl just flew in circles around the Owlery. Eventually he came to the conclusion that either his spell had not worked or the owl was keeping its destination secret until he had left. He walked inside and counted to ten, then retraced his steps, but the owl was gone.

   Shrugging, he decided to walk down to Hagrid’s and see if he and and his wife had returned. He was half way there when he found himself annexed by a group of Professors on their way back from a walk around the Lake. They greeted him with expressions of delight, and he did his best to minimise the nervous tapping of his right hand by concealing it in the folds of his robe. He felt himself calm a little as Nimiar and Neville converged on him, buffering him from the rest of the group to some extent. 

  Keeping his responses short and friendly, Harry thought he might soon be able to move on without any awkwardness, when he reached up to scrub at his hair with his left hand and Tamara exclaimed, “why, Harry! Is that a new ring?” She took his hand and turned it over so the black shimmer of the sapphire ring caught the light. She made admiring noises, then looked up. “Where did you get it? Who was it from?”  
  “Uh...the other day.” Harry glanced at the tall handsome Savona. He was grinning.  
“And it was made for that finger?” Tamara asked.  
  “Oh, I don’t know, it’s just the one one it fits best,” he said quickly, which raised a laugh. He cast a desperate look at Nee, who was biting her lip.  
  “Ah it must be from a passionate admirer then...” said Tamara.  
  “I’ve seen it before.” Aurora Sinistra frowned in perplexity. “I know I have. It’s very old, and they don’t cut Kinseth Rings like this anymore.”  
  “Who is it from?” Savona asked me.  
  Harry glanced up at him, trying to divine whether secret knowledge lay behind his expression of interest.  
  “Of-course he cannot tell, look how he blushes, it must be a very new love affair...” said Tamara, her tone was chiding but knowing. “But... perhaps a hint, Harry? Who has finally caught the heart of the Chosen One?”

  Harry’s face flamed redder than ever, but he managed to say. “It was an anonymous gift, the best kind, because I get the ring and don’t have to do anything about it!”  
  Everyone laughed.  
  “Now that,” Savona said, taking my arm, “is a direct challenge, is it not? A mystery to be solved! I will walk with you and help you solve it!” With that, he smoothly split the group and began strolling along the pathway with Harry in tow. Most of the others continued towards the castle, breaking naturally into smaller groups, only Nimiar trailed along with them. “Let’s see. What kind of clues do we have. Have you kissed anyone this week? Winked? Sent a posy-of promise?” He went on with so many ridiculous questions Harry couldn’t help   laughing.

  They reached Hagrid’s house very quickly. This was fine with Harry. He did not like being the center of attention. He felt jangled and uneasy. Had he betrayed himself in any important way? Trodden on any toes? Made any social faux pas? There was no time to consider these questions. Hagrid‘s family had returned to their large wooden house on the edge of the forbidden forest. A crossbow and four pairs of galoshes were outside the front door.  
   
      When Harry knocked they heard a frantic scrabbling from inside, several booming barks, a miawing and general pandemonium. Then Hagrid’s voice rang out, saying, “Clarice, hold on to Fang — Maxyl get Claw! Olympe, we have visitors.”  
      Hagrid’s big, hairy face appeared in the crack as he pulled the door open.  
      “Come on in,” he said, and then doing a double take. “Harry? Harry!”  
      He let them in, and wrapped Harry in a bone crushing hug, sniffling. “‘s bin so long since I’ve seen yeh!  
      There was no longer only one room in Hagrid’s house, but the front door still entered into the kitchen. Hams and pheasants were hanging from the ceiling, a copper kettle was boiling on the open fire, and in the corner stood a massive table with a crocheted table cloth over it.  
      “Make yerselves at home,” said Hagrid, “this is me daughter —Clarice, and me son Maxyl... and you know Olympe.” Like their parents, the kids wer nearly double the size of a regular human child, they had curly dark hair and big toothy smiles.  
      “This is Savona,” Harry told them, “and you know Nee.”

  Olympe was pouring boiling water into a humongous teapot and putting large, but delicately made, cakes onto a china platter.  
      “A new Professor, eh?” said Hagrid, glancing at Savona. “Where’d yeh come from?”  
      Savona introduced his history and noting that Madam Maxime had been his Headmistress at Beauxbatons, the two of them were soon off chatting away in French, and leaving the others behind in their rapid speech. As Olympe was going to be taking on the Deputy Headmistress position that year, it seemed there was a lot to be said. Harry focused on the delicious cakes — nothing like the shapeless lumps with raisins that used to almost break his teeth when he visited as a child. Like everyone else in the household, the cat Claw was at least double the size of a regular cat, and had curled up next to Fang on his mat without any further interest in the guests.

  Harry wished for a moment that it was socially appropriate for him to do the same. Stalk off like a cat and doze through the polite chatter.  
      “How many days you got left until yer holidays?” Hagrid asked.  
      “Not long now,” said Nimiar. “And that reminds me — Hagrid, am I right to understand that you don’t want to teach Care of Magical Creatures this year?”  
      “Oh yeah, yeh’re right,” said Hagrid, swallowing his large mouthful of cake, and wiping icing off his fingers on a tablecloth sized napkin. “Harry can keep teachin’, I’m happy enough bein’ the caretaker meself. It gives me more time fer me kiddies.” He an Olympe shared an affectionate smile, and Hagrid tousled his son’s curly hair.

      Harry felt his heart constricting at this show of love and happiness. “Just as long as you promise to tell me if you change your mind,” said Harry.  
   
As the first term of that school year progressed, Harry became more and more involved in the social happenings of the faculty, at the urging of Nimiar, Neville and Hermione. Harry didn’t know whether he was imagining it or not, but also he seemed to keep running into Snape wherever he went. These momentary encounters caused him more anxiety than all of his other interactions combined, so he worked even harder to avoid Snape.

      He had not heard from his Unknown admirer, but he seemed to have acquired several real life admirers who were exerting themselves to be friendly and yet non-threatening. One was Savona, who continued to draw him into conversations and activities and was often at his side, and the other was Padma Patil who had returned to Hogwarts to take over teaching Diviniation. Of the two of them, he felt most comfortable with Padma, despite her obvious flirting, but Savona’s interest was more puzzling.

  Whenever Snape observed Harry’s two admirers wooing him, the old sardonic amusement seemed to come to his face. This was particularly evident one afternoon when Harry came across him walking in the garden with Savona. Savona quickly changed their course to include Harry, and brought their own conversation about aconite and monkshood, to a close.

  “Please don’t feel like you have to change direction for my sake,” said Harry, hoping to avoid any awkward moments, but Savona fell into step on his left hand side, and Snape on his right, and there was no polite way to extricate himself.  
  “And lose an opportunity to talk with you without being cut out by Padma?” Savona said. “Never!”  
  There was an choke of laughter to his right, but Harry couldn’t bring himself to make eye contact with Snape. Instead he said, “Merlin’s Beard you’re dramatic, Savona.”  
  “Don’t accuse me of drama!” said Savona with mendacious shock. “That implies I’m not serious! I assure you, I fell in love with you the year I heard that you gave yourself up to You-Know-Who to save your friends, and then defeated him with only an Expelliarmus!”  
  Taken by surprise, Harry laughed out loud.

  Savona gave him a look of mock consternation. “Now don’t—please don’t—destroy my faith in heroism by telling me it’s not true.”  
  “Oh, it’s true enough, but heroic?” Harry scoffed.      “What’s so heroic about that? It took no amount of magical power or skill.”  
   “And such modesty! It didn’t go to your head when you received a thousand love letters from gorgeous witches and wizards?”

   Harry frowned, uncomfortable all of a sudden. “Yes.” he said shortly. “Thousands of letters that first year. From people who didn’t know me at all... yet thought they were violently in love with me...” His voice trailed off and his eye was twitching. He made his excuses and fled.

   Harry had brought his windpipes back with him from the Forest, and on days when he was feeling overwhelmed by social pressure he would walk up to the Astronomy Tower, look out over the Forest and play. That afternoon, when he had just finished playing a melancholy tune, an owl came flying out of nowhere and perched on the open window embrasure beside him. Puzzled he removed an elegant roll of parchment from its leg, and unrolled it.

   It was unaddressed, and unsigned. It read:

_You say you would prefer discourse to gifts. I am yours to command. I will confess my hesitancy was due largely to my own confusion. It seems, from my vantage anyway, that you are surrounded by people in whom you could confide and from whom you could obtain excellent advice. Your turning to a faceless stranger for both could be ascribed to a taste for the idiosyncratic if not to mere caprice._

   Harry winced at that, he had hoped for someone who would speak honestly to him... but this truth was biting. There were only a few more lines.

_From my limited understanding of your current situation, I suspect you are courted by many people who believe you to be in, at least potentially, a position of influence or power. This can make it difficult to navigate social situations, and I am willing to serve as foil, if foil you require_

   Harry read it through three times, then folded it carefully and fitted it inside an inner pocket of his robes. Returning to his room with the envelope, he sat at his desk with a fresh sheet of parchment before him, he wrote:

 **Dear Unknown**  
**The only foil—actually, fool—here is me, which isn’t any pleasure to write. But I don’t want to talk about my past mistakes, I want to learn to avoid making the same or like ones in the future.**

**That I survived Voldemort’s war was a matter of luck, and not skill or talent, and the putative position of power, it’s just that. I have often been in proximity with powerful and talented wizards and witches, and this proximity to power seems to be misread by most people as true power. But believe me, no one could possibly be more ignorant or less influential than I**


	9. The Party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Bold is Harry**  
>  _Italics is the Unknown_  
>  ——--

      The night after most of the students had departed for their Christmas holidays, Tamara organised a Staff Party in the intimacy of the staff lounge. Her voice rang out, as they gathered, saying, “Merry Christmas everyone, thank-you for a wonderful first term— enjoy.”  
      As she spread out her hands — the dainty low tables that she had set up around the room filled with food and drinks. Music began playing from the direction of the star atop the Christmas tree, sparkling with tiny icicles, and glittering with luminous candles.

      “How long until she gets Severus to propose, do you reckon?“ Nee murmured to Harry. And for some unknown reason the impact of that dispassionate question was like a dousing of cold water over his soul. He turned his startled gaze on Tamara who was sidling up to Snape, with a possessive hand on his arm.  
      “Hang on,” he said. “Are they together? I thought they were just, just...”  
      “Just working long hours?” Nee giggled. “That’s what Sev maintains, but he is such a private person... He deserves to be happy though...I just hope she’s going to prove worthy of him.”  
      Harry felt a headache descending. He was making his way towards the exit, hoping to slip away unnoticed, when Tamara pressed a glass of iced  
punch into his hands, smiling as she led him to a comfortable place by the fire. “Do you like it, Harry?” she said, her brows raised in an anxious line. “It is a special order. I think it is such a Christmassy drink.”

      “It’s wonderful,” he said, swallowing a sip. The liquid was astringent with citrus and blended fruit flavors. His throat burned a little, but another sip of the cool drink soothed that, and the twitching of his eye lessened. “Thank-you.”  
      “Punch?” Tamara asked Neville, who was sitting next to Harry. She passed a glass into his hands and poured herself one.       

      Harry sat there and sipped at his punch cup, which never seemed to be empty, and tried to follow the swift give and take of the conversational circle. The talk reminded him of a spring river, moving rapidly with great splashes of wit over quite a range of territory. Like a river, it wound and doubled back and split and re-formed; as the evening progressed Harry had more and more difficulty navigating in it. He was increasingly distracted by the glowing candles, and by the brilliance with which the icicles decorating the room reflected the golden light.  
      Faces, too, caught his eye, though at times he couldn’t follow what the speakers said. With a kind of fixed attention he watched the swift ebb and flow of emotion in eyes, and cheeks, and around mouths, and in the gesturing of hands.

      Then Tamara was speaking to him. “Come, friends. I bid you to be silent. Harry did promise to entertain us by describing his adventures in the war and the forest.”  
      He did? Harry tried to recall what she’d said—and what he’d promised. His thoughts were tangled, mixing present with memory, and finally he shook his head. Every face was turned expectantly toward him.  
His vision seemed to be swimming gently.  
      “Uh,” he said.  
      “Mouth dry?” Tamara’s voice was right behind him. “Something to wet it.” She pressed a chilled goblet into his hands. Harry raised it and saw Galdran directly across from him, an eager interest in his face. He glanced from Harry to Tamara, then he was blocked from view as Harry took a deep sip of iced—double-distilled bristic.  
      A cold burn numbed his mouth and throat, and  
his hand started to drop. Fingers nipped the goblet from him before he could spill it. He realized he had been about to spill it and he blinked. Then noted that Tamara’s punch was untouched. The alcohol was certainly having an effect, but there must be another reason Tamara was not drinking.  
       
      “Tell me,” she said sweetly, “how did you discover You-Know-Who’s secrets?”  
     Veritaserum. Somehow she must have slipped him a dose, for as soon as she asked the question he felt a compulsion to answer, and no control over the words that came out.  
      “I could... see into his mind...” said Harry, glancing helplessly at her. He knew that veritaserum removed whatever boundaries the mind made against talking freely, and the prospect of speaking without inhibition in this setting terrified him.  
      “Really? Tell us more...” she said in a smooth, soothing voice.  
      “...our minds were, linked, through my scar... I was an accidental horcrux...”  
      Her perfect brows arched, but she was still smiling as she asked, “Did you really fight a duel of death with him?”

      “It was more of a duel of—” Harry felt the room lurch as he stood up.  
      That was a mistake.  
      “A duel,” He repeated slowly, “of—” he wet his lips again. “Of—um? A duel of dumb luck!” He giggled inanely, then noticed that no one else was laughing. He blinked, trying to see, to explain. “He woulda killed me...y’see...if I didn’t have Malfoy’s wand at the—at the time—”  
      Words were no longer possible, but he hardly noticed. The room had begun to revolve with gathering speed. He lost his footing and started to pitch forward, but before he could land on his face, Savona’s strong hands caught him. “Come on Harry, time to call it a night."

———

      Harry woke up feeling terrible, in body and in spirit. He had managed to thoroughly embarrass himself in front of most of the faculty. His only consolation was that Snape had left the party before Tamara’s questions and his obvious drunkenness.  
     A light scent like fresh-cut summer grass reached him; He turned his head, wincing against the pounding inside his skull, and saw a teacup sitting on a plate beside his bed. Steam curled up from it. For a time he watched the steam with a strange, detached sort of pleasure. His eyes seemed to ache a little less; the scent made him feel incrementally better.

      “Can you drink this, Harry?” Hermione whispered. He didn’t wonder at her being there in his room in the morning, she always seemed to know if he needed her. Groaning and wincing, he sat up, took the cup, and sipped the liquid in it. The taste was bitter and made him shiver, but within the space of two breaths he felt a wondrous coolness spread all through his body. When he gulped down the rest, the coolness banished most of the headache.  
      He looked up at Hermione gratefully. She gave a short nod of satisfaction, then said, “There’s no better potion for a hangover... Oh, Harry. I hope this won’t put you off socialising altogether. She shouldn’t have given you so much punch! You never usually drink alcohol! How do you feel?”  
      Harry’s entire face burned. “I suppose it’s all over the Castle by now.”  
      She gave him a wry smile. “I think I received six notes this morning, telling me what I missed, and that it seemed like Tamara purposefully got you drunk to embarrass you.”

      “I think it might have been worse than that actually...“ Harry said tentatively, and she flashed him a concerned look. “I think she slipped me Veritaserum. I would have said anything... Only— she obviously didn’t realise what a light weight I am — and I was too drunk by then to make much sense... I did embarrass myself, but I didn’t say reveal any secrets or special knowledge? I’m not even sure what she could have been hoping to hear? But I do remember Galdran looking very interested.”

      Later, when Nee was there to check on him, he found himself asking, “Why would she do it? I’m pretty sure I never did anything to earn her enmity.”  
Nee shrugged. “I can’t say I understand her. She’s always been secretive and ambitious, and I expect she sees you as competition. After all, you have effortlessly managed to attract the attention of one of the most eligible wizards—”  
      Harry snorted. “Even I know that a fad can end as fast as it began. Savona could get bored with me tomorrow.”

      Nee smiled as she rotated a crocheted cushion through her fingers. “Well, it’s true, but I think you underestimate the value of Savona’s friendship.”  
      “But it isn’t a friendship,” Harry retorted without thinking—and then realized he was right. “It’s a flirtation. We’ve never talked about anything that really matters to either of us. I don’t know him any better now than I did the first day we met.” As he said the words he felt an unsettling sensation inside, as if he were on the verge of an important insight. Pausing, he waited; but further thoughts did not come.  
      Nee obviously thought that sufficed. “If more people recognized the difference between friendship and mere attraction, and how love must partake of both to prosper, I expect there’d be more happy people.”  
      “And a lot fewer poems, songs and novels,” Harry said, laughing as he threw his own cushion gently at her.  
      Nee laughed as well.

      Another letter had arrived from the Unkown, and Harry was itching to reply to it. So he sat down at his desk, as soon as Nee departed, to pen his response. Reading back over the letter, he contemplated how much the Unknown seemed to have figured out.

_In keeping faith with your stated desire to have the truth of my observations, permit me to observe that you have a remarkable ability to win partisans. If you choose to dismiss this gift and believe yourself powerless, then of course you are powerless; but the potential is still there—you are merely pushing it away with both hands._

      _Ignorance, if you will honor me with permission to take issue with your words, is a matter of definition—or possibly of degree. To be aware of one’s lack of knowledge is to be merely untutored, a state that you seem to be aggressively attempting to change. A true ignorant is unaware of this lack._

        _To bring our discourse from the general to the specific, I offer my congratulation to you on your triumph in the Affair Tamara. She intended to do you ill. You apparently didn’t see it, or appeared not to see it. It was the most effective—perhaps the only effective—means of scouting her plans to have you spill your secrets. Now her reputation is in your hands. If you were to publicly express your disapproval of her actions— she would be universally despised and her aspirations in the UK shattered._

        _This is not evidence of lack of influence._

            Harry thought for a moment and then wrote rapidly in his messy scrawl.

      **I’ll tell you what conclusion I’ve reached after a morning’s thought, and it’s this: that people are not diamonds and ought not to be imitating them. I’ve been working hard at re-entering social situations, but the more I learn about what really goes on in social circles, the more I comprehend people rarely say what they mean, or act in straightforward ways. I understand it, but I don’t like it.**

      **Were I truly influential, then I would be able to change these things so that it would be possible for people to use honesty and simplicity in their interactions rather than social and political manoeuvres. It is a terrible kind of falsehood that people can only use words as a kind of social weapon. Apparently some people thought it was incredibly cruel of Tamara to get me drunk, when perhaps it was simply an oversight on her part. I don’t think she expected me to be so drunk.**

      **What worries me more is the certainty I feel that she, or someone close to her, slipped Veritaserum into my last drink. She didn’t get the chance to ask many questions, but the ones she did ask — I felt compelled to answer. But I’m not about to pride myself on keeping my secrets. Once again it was only luck — or drunkenness — that saved me from what could have been a harmful interview. This requires more thought. I do not think it would be to my advantage or hers to bring this to public attention. In the meantime, will you tell me more of what you think?**


	10. Picking fights

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Bold is Harry**  
>  _Italics is the Unknown_  
>  ——--

  The few students who had remained at Hogwarts over Christmas, and many of the staff, ploughed their way through two feet of snow on Saturday evening to go skating on the frozen lake. Harry was easily able to ignore the gleeful shouts drifting up from the grounds outside. He was still puzzling over Tamara’s actions, and had decided to find out what he could from Savona, who seemed to know her better than anybody else.  
  Clever comments with double meanings; fingers pressed against someone’s wrist in different ways to hint at different things; communication through indirect commentary; these were all things that seemed to come naturally to Savona, however he still had an honesty about him that made Harry hopeful.  
  He had often invited Harry back to his rooms of an evening, but so far Harry had declined every time. So his surprise and delight when Harry turned up at his door, seemed genuine and unaffected.

  “Harry!” he said warmly, shutting the door behind him. “Come in...”  
  “So?” said Harry, looking around as he entered, suddenly not sure how he would broach the topic of Tamara. “These are your rooms?”  
  “They are,” he said, smiling. He pulled out his wand and gave it a complicated little wave so that quiet music began to play in the room; he then pointed it at the fire place where a kettle swung over the flames and began to heat.  
  Harry looked up—for Savona was half a head taller than he—into his blue eyes, and though their expression was merely contemplative, and his manner mild, Harry felt his neck go hot.  
  Turning away from that direct, steady gaze, he couldn’t find the words to ask Savona about Tamara’s political plans. So he said, “I came to ask a favor of you.”

  “Speak, then.” His voice was a shade deeper than usual.  
  Harry glanced over his shoulder. Savona smiled lazily and made a slight, airy gesture. “But you could have requested my assistance over dinner.”  
  “Oh.” Harry realized what he meant. “Oh!” So he hadn’t guessed why Harry had come—instead he thought... And, well, here they were alone.  
  Harry’s first reaction was alarm. He did find Savona attractive, but — he realized as he was standing there — it was the way he’d admire a beautifully crafted spell, or a sunset above the forest canopy. Another person, finding themselves in his place, could probably embark happily into dalliance, but the prospect simply terrified him.

  At his silence, Savona touched his arm, lightly, sliding cool fingers up to his shoulder, and then under his messy hair to the back of his neck. When Savona’s lips met his, heat flooded his body, replacing the cold shock of the touch. He leaned into that kiss as Savona’s hands caressed him. He had not been kissed since Ginny had taken him into her room on his birthday a decade ago. It was powerful, mind-numbing pleasure.  
  But it was not joy.  
  He knew what could come next, right there in that room, for no one would stop them. But the last shreds of his consciousness arrowed ahead, and Harry knew he would not want to find himself lying next to Savona when the pleasure had gone, as go it must; Harry had seen couples for whom the absence of pleasure made one another a burden to be borne. Ron and Hermione were his clearest example.  
  Two things caught and steadied his will against the sensory flood: Harry did not know Savona.  
  And: Savona did not know Harry.

  So what he had been initiating had to be no more than a game. Harry wrenched his lips away, breathing fast. His fingers trembled as he straightened his robes. Savona was also breathing fast, but he—of course—had more control, and he smiled, but made no move of pursuit. “Change your mind, Harry?”

  Harry couldn’t speak yet. He shook his head—nodded—then rolled his eyes and shrugged. This time Savona laughed out loud, a soft, pleasant sound, before he led Harry to sit on the couch and took the boiling kettle from the fire.  
  “In that case,” he said. “I think it is time for coffee—”  
  “Maybe tea,” Harry cut in, almost giddy with relief at the deft change of subject. He saw that quirk to Savona’s eyes that indicated internal laughter. “Tea for you,” he said, calmly. “And how else can I help you, Harry?”  
  Relief chased away the intense awareness of his proximity and made it possible for Harry to speak. “Something that happened last night... I think you know what... I’m trying to understand it...”  
  “You came to talk about Tamara?” He raised his brows.

  “In a nutshell, yes,” Harry responded, “mostly because you seem to know her the best, and I thought you might understand what she was trying to achieve.”

  “You did?” Savona’s voice was cautious.

  “What troubles me most is trying to figure out Tamara’s real intent. Did she just want to embarrass me? Or was she looking for specific information and hoped I’d be loose lipped enough to share anything?”

  “I’m sorry, Tamara’s motivations are as much a mystery to me as they are to you. Though I think she gets most of her ambition and ideas from her father... There is much entertainment to be afforded in perusing the mistakes of our forebears.”  
  He said it exactly like he said everything else, but a sense of warning trickled through Harry.

  “For what purposes?” he asked.  
  “Mere curiosity, I’m a history professor, after all,” Savona murmured, still smiling. “I never involve myself in political brangles.”  
  So that was that.  
  “Thanks for the advice,” Harry said briskly. “I think I’ll look into that a little bit... I know next to nothing about the Chamadis family.”

  As soon as he had finished his tea, he made his excuses and escaped Savona’s knowing gaze. Just as he exited the rooms, feeling somehow furtive and embarrassed, he nearly bumped into Snape walking by in the other direction.  
  “Oh, uh, sorry!” Harry said sharply, a trace of panic in his voice. “I didn’t see you there—“  
  “In a hurry?” Snape drawled, and he glanced at the door behind Harry as though he knew just what had happened in that room. Harry flushed all the way to his hairline.  
  “Uh yep,” he squeaked, “I’m off to the Library!” 

  Snape’s face showed no hint of curiosity but there was a question in his tone when he said; “then you’re headed the wrong way. I’m going to the Library myself.”

  Instead of being able to scurry away and hide, Harry found himself walking alongside Snape with his face burning, in an awkward silence. Or at least it was awkward for Harry, Snape seemed completely calm and at ease from all outward appearance. They made their way down the silent halls, falling into step despite the differences in height. Feeling the need to break the silence, Harry said: “I’m actually looking for history books and archives — of a particular wizarding family— but I’ve never actually checked the Library for that sort of thing before.”

  “There is,” he said. “Memoirs from Lords and Ladies addressed specifically to heirs. Most are about laws. A few are diaries of famous wizards or witches. There is a small alcove near the Restricted Section that holds the hand written personal histories. It’s a room that hides behind the Tapestry of Turic the Third, he of the twelve thousand proclamations. And I’m quite certain that there is a book in the archives by Turic’s daughter, rescinding most of them.” 

 He paused and looked Harry’s direction, the light from above them highlighting the smudges of tiredness under his eyes. “Or if you’d like to peruse something more recent, there are a few newly released copies of the personal accounts of some of the more powerful wizards of our day — Nicholas Flamel... Albus Dumbledore... even Tom Marvolo Riddle. His gives a fairly comprehensive overview of the belief system that spawned the Death Eaters.”  
  Harry whistled.  
  “He did not expect to be defeated. After I recovered I returned to his headquarters in haste, as soon as I could, in order to prevent looting; but such was Voldemort’s hold on people that, even though the news had preceded me by two days, I found his rooms completely undisturbed. I don’t think _anyone_ who wasn’t present actually believed he was really dead—they expected one of his ugly little ploys to catch out traitors.”

  This was the most Snape had said directly to him, in a very long time. Turning Snape’s words over in his mind brought Harry back from memory and into the present with a jolt.  
  “But, _you_ weren’t there!” he said suddenly, anger flaring like a struck match. “Do you mean to say that you didn’t believe it? Did you think I had failed again, as I always do?” Harry glanced at him in time to see him wince slightly and shake his head. Was that regret? For his words—or for Harry’s uselessness? But now that he was asking questions he couldn’t seem to stop, and the defensive questions rolled off his tongue.

  “But did you really intend some kind of double meaning? Hinting that no-one could believe in me? Or merely that I am so useless it seemed impossible?”  
  “Neither.” Snape’s tone was flat. “Forgive my maladroitness.”

  Harry shut his mouth; and there they were, Harry wishing he could run but feeling he ought not to. There was—something—he had to do, or say, though he had no idea what. They didn’t speak again for the rest of the walk. But before they entered the Library, Snape turned and pinned him with his cool, black gaze. “It seems,” he said, “that seeking to converse with you will not cease to embroil us in argument, whatever the cause. I apologize. I also realize trying to convince you of my good intentions is a fruitless effort, but my own conscience demands that I make the attempt.”

  Harry couldn’t think of any reply to make to that, so he whirled around and retreated into the library, his insides boiling with a nasty mixture of embarrassment and anger. Why did he always have to bring up Snape’s views of him—and pick a fight?  
  What kind of answer was he looking for?  
  All he did was repeat the humiliations of his years as a student, when he had misinterpreted everything Snape had ever done. And the worst thing was, he wouldn’t dare to go near Snape again, in spite of the easy way Snape had helped him at the beginning of the encounter—an encounter which was thoroughly his own fault.

 It was a while before his mind was quiet enough to read. And it was late at night before he found a book that mentioned the Chamadis family. He had missed dinner, but he returned to his room without stopping in the kitchens. 

 His heart gave a bound of anticipation when he saw the owl waiting and I recognized the style of the Unknown.

_You ask what I think, and I will tell you that I admire without reservation your ability to solve your problems in a manner unforeseen by any, including those who would consider themselves far more clever than you._

 That was all.

 Harry read it through several times, trying to divine whether it was a compliment or something else entirely. He or she was waiting to see what Harry did about Tamara, Harry thought at last.

 This was the essence of politics, he realized. Using situations to ones own advantage so that others will act according to one’s wishes. Harry grabbed up a paper, dipped his pen, and wrote swiftly:

**Today I have come to two realizations. Now, I well realize that every regular witch or wizard probably saw all this by their tenth year. Nonetheless, I think I finally see the home-thrust of politics. Everyone who has an interest in such things seems to be waiting for me to make some sort of capital with respect to the situation with Tamara, and won’t they be surprised when I do nothing at all!**

**Truth to say, I hold no grudge against Tamara. I’d have to be a mighty hypocrite to fault her for wishing to find out my secrets, when I have tried to solve every mystery I’ve come across since I was a First Year—how can I begrudge her—and if she was digging for insights into the life of the Hero of Slytherin House, I got in her way yet again. Not that I know his secrets, though that seems to be where her heart lies.**

**Which brings me to my second insight: that Savona’s flirtation with me is only that, and not a courtship. The way I define courtship is that one befriends the other, tries to become a companion and not just a lover. I can’t see why he so exerted himself to seek me out, but I can’t complain, it has taught me a lot about myself and what I am not looking for in my life.**

 Harry sent off the letter with the owl who had waited for him, and was surprised to see a reply awaited him when he awoke the next morning. The owl must have dropped it on his bedside table and departed again, for there lay the beautifully folded linen paper Harry had grown used to seeing from his Unknown.  
_  
I can agree with your assessment of the ideal courtship, but I believe you err when you assume that everyone has known the difference from age ten—or indeed, any age._

_There are those who will never perceive the difference, and then there are some who are aware to some degree of the difference but choose not to heed it. I need hardly add that the motivation here is usually lust for money or power, more than for the individual’s personal charms._

_But I digress. To return to your subject, do you truly believe, then, that those who court must find themselves of one mind in all things? Must they study deeply and approve each other’s views on important subjects before they can risk contemplating a committed relationship?_

 Well, he had to sit down and answer that. He scrawled out two pages of thoughts, each following rapidly on the heels of its predecessor, until he discovered that the morning was already advancing. He hurried to the Owlery, and for the first time since Hedwig’s death, considered that it might be time to get his own owl once again.


	11. A Ring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Bold is Harry**  
>  _Italics is the Unknown_  
>  ———

      Harry had slept in, and missed the quiet daybreak breakfast with Nee, but he hoped that he was early enough to miss the rush still. He made his way down to the staffroom and stopped outside the door. There was no sound of voices. He pushed it open just a little. Nothing.  
      Feeling relieved that the room was empty he pushed through the door — and looked across the room into a familiar pair of midnight black eyes. Snape was dressed very casually, in a black jumper and dark jeans. Without his robes he looked... approachable?

Or something. 

Something that made Harry gulp.

      Snape didn’t say a word. He bent his head and went back to his task, which seemed to be writing on a stack of papers whilst sipping coffee. Harry watched his quill traversing swiftly over the paper in close lines. Then his gaze traveled to the smooth black hair, neatly tied back, and from there to the lines of his hook nosed profile. For the very first time he felt like he was seeing Snape simply as a person and not as either adversary or legend. The curl of danger, of being caught at his observations and once again humiliated, caused him to drag his gaze away, and he went to the sideboard, helping himself to a plentiful breakfast. 

      Snape kept his gaze on his writing, and his pen scarcely paused. Scrawl, dip, scrawl, dip. Two or three more words—then the pen stopped, he seemed to sense Harry’s gaze and he glanced up again. “Was there something you needed, Potter?” he asked. Polite, but very remote.  
      Harry been staring again for a protracted time, his reactions frozen as if behind a layer of ice. He said in a rush, “The archives, I found what I needed. Do you—should I — do you— want to know why I...”  
      Snape raised one dark brow. “It is entirely your business, what you researched.”  
      “Oh.” Harry gulped. “Yes... I mean, I know.”  
      Snape dipped his pen, bent his head, and resumed his task.

      Harry took his full plate, and fled.

———

      He spent the day holed up in his bedroom, reading the memoir of Lady Ardis Chamadis, which was replete with gossip, detailing Ardis’ numerous and colourful dalliances. Her ten-year career of flirtation came to a close not long after she became engaged to the Malfoy heir. This engagement ended after a duel with the third Merindar son—no one knew the real reasons why—and though both men lived through the duel, neither talked of it afterward. Or to her. She wound up marrying into a minor wizarding family in the southwest and passed the rest of her days in obscurity.

      Harry’s response to the Unknown had caused a lengthy answer in kind, and throughout the holidays they exchanged letters—sometimes three times a day. It was such a relief for Harry to be able to express himself freely and without cost. The Unknown seemed to appreciate Harry’s view of the world, for his style (and by this stage Harry was nearly certain it was a ‘he’) gradually metamorphosed from the carefully neutral mentor to a very witty kind of dialogue that verged from time to time on the acerbic—the kind of humor that appealed to Harry the most.

      They exchanged views about different aspects of history, and Harry deeply enjoyed his trenchant observations on the follies of wizards and muggles alike. He never pronounced judgment on current events and people, despite some of Harry’s hints; and Harry forbore asking directly, lest he inadvertently say something about someone in his family—or worse, him. For he still had no clue to the Unknown’s identity.

      Savona continued to flirt with Harry at every opportunity. Padma claimed his company for every meal and always gravitated to his side at social events; when they talked—which was fairly frequently—it was about music. Though other staff were friendly and pleasant, these two were attentive in a way that screamed of romantic interest. Neither of them hinted at letters—nor did Harry. If in person the Unknown couldn’t bring himself to talk on the important subjects that increasingly took up time and space in his letters, well, Harry could sympathise.

      Anyway, the only mention of current events that Harry made in his letters was about his own experience. Late one night, he poured out his pent-up feelings about his ignorant past, his childish beliefs, and the sheer luck of his experiences in the war. To his intense relief the Unknown returned to neither scorn nor pity. That did not stop Harry from going around for a day wary of knowing looks, for he’d realized that though the letters could be pleasant and encouraging, he could very well be providing someone with prime material for gossip. Never before had he so felt the disadvantage of not knowing who the writer was. But no one treated Harry any differently than usual; there were no glances of awareness, no bright, superior smiles of those who know a secret. So it appeared the writer was as benevolent as his letters seemed, yet perfectly content to remain unknown.

      And Harry was content to leave it that way.

      During an undercover trip to Diagon Alley to shop for a present for Nimiar’s birthday present, he came across a jeweller selling some beautiful rings, and one in particular stood out to him. It was a fitting return for his own ring, and he decided immediately that it was worth the exorbitant price. It was plain and elegant, etched with laurel leaves in an abstract, pleasing pattern. Leaves, spring, circles—all symbols that complemented friendship. The gemstone set deep into the ring was ekirth, which traditionally represented mystery. Carefully faceted: it glittered like a nightstar, so deep a blue as to seem black, except when the light hit it. Then it sent out brilliant shards of color: gold, blue, crimson, emerald.

      The Unkown was not likely to wear the jewellery Harry sent. He knew that. Yet it gave him pleasure to select a gift that seemed fitting. If he was wrong... and the Unknown was a woman... he wasn’t sure that the ring was quite right, but it felt worth the risk. After wasting much paper and time in fruitless endeavor to write a graceful note to accompany it, Harry decided to simply send it in a tiny cedar box that he had made whilst in the Forest.

      There was no response the next morning, when he rose early, which disappointed him a little, but he shrugged off the reaction and threw himself into the day’s work. It was only a few days away from the Easter break, and Harry was surprised to realise just how fast the term had gone. He did his best not to worry about the silence from the Unknown, and busied himself with every other task so as not to think about it.

———

      The first afternoon of Easter break, he was hurrying along a hallway on the second floor, lined by many arched windows. He happened to glance out at two figures in one of the private courtyards. The glass was old and wavery, but something about the tall figure made him stumble to a halt and reach to unlatch the window. Harry opened the window a crack, telling himself that they could see him if they chanced to look up, so it wasn’t really spying. 

      Snape was walking side by side with Aurora Sinistra, his head bent, his hands clasped behind him. His manner completely absorbed. Aurora was nearly as tall as Snape, slim, and still in her prime. A lady with a heart-shaped face and wide-set gray-blue eyes. Her hair was fine and somewhat thin, of a tint midway between blond and brown. Harry could not hear her voice, but he could see urgency in her long hands as she gestured, and intensity in the angle of her head. Then she glanced up at Snape and smiled. The expression in her face made Harry back away without closing the window. 

      He had seen that look before, in the way Nee and Neville smiled at one another, and in the faces of Bill and Fleur, in pictures of his parents. It was love. Almost overwhelming was the sense that he had breached their privacy, and instinctively he started for his room, again. His hands were shaking and heartbeat pattering. Why? No one had seen him. And he would not accidentally encounter Snape in the hallway if he was outside with Aurora. Still, that didn’t seem to soothe his nerves. He did an about turn and went up to the archive room in the Library, busying his mind and searching through the appropriate years looking for mentions of the Chamadis’ or Merindars. 

      In his limited free time he had still been researching the histories, wondering if something would explain Tamara’s actions, or Galdran’s interest, at that Christmas party. She had not attempted anything similar since, and seemed completely devoted to seducing or captivating Snape. Though rumour had it that despite her increasingly obvious efforts, no-one had actually seen either one of them going into private rooms together. And despite Harry’s aversion for gossip, somehow he managed to keep abreast of that news. 

      He wondered now if Snape was able to resist Tamara’s beauty and charm because of an attachment to Aurora. After all, it had been ten years since he nearly died, plenty of time to have healed of his emotional wounds and found love. Harry banished the speculations from his mind and refocused his attention on the histories of long ago witches and wizards. In one old, crumbling book there was a dull listing of everyone who attended formal Hogwarts functions, and both the Merindars and Chamadis showed up there. But it was another reference to the duel between the third Merindar son and the Malfoy heir, ostensibly over Ardis Chamadis, that gripped his attention again.

      Overall, throughout his research he had gleaned very little of interest. Lady Ardis Chamadis was beautiful, wealthy and popular, much like Tamara. Yet it appeared, through the pages of her memoir at least, that the main business of her life had been to gather prestige or lovers, and find ways to shock and amaze the wizarding community. Perhaps that was all there was to Tamara’s motivations also. Maybe she simply wanted to create drama around the most interesting characters she could find.

      But it was the references to the third Merindar son that had continued to niggle at his consciousness. There seemed to be something important there. Harry decided that his next step would be to find Hermione and ask her what she knew of that history, but on his way to see her he stopped in at his room, only to find a note from the Unknown, the first in three days. He pounced on it eagerly, for receiving his letters had come to be the most important part of Harry’s day. 

      Instead of the long letter he had come to anticipate, it was short.

      _I thank you for the fine ring. It was thoughtfully chosen and I appreciate the generous gesture, for I have to admit I would rather impute generosity than mere caprice behind the giving of a gift that cannot be worn._  
      _Or is this a sign that you wish, after all, to alter the circumscriptions governing our correspondence? I thought—to make myself clear—that you preferred your admirer to remain secret. I am not convinced you really wish to relinquish this game and risk the involvement inherent in a contact face-to-face._

      Harry dropped the note on his desk, feeling as if he’d reached for a blossom and had been stung by a bowtruckle arrow.


	12. Mystery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Parts of this chapter are remixed scenes from A Ghost of a Chance, a lovely Novella by Josh Lanyon — an exceptional author of gay fiction.

      “Go to Severus!” Hermione urged Harry. “If it has to do with the Merindars, he will know!”  
      Harry shook his head. He was still disappointed that Hermione’s famous personal knowledge bank had failed him in this instance, and he desperately needed the mystery-solving to take his mind off the note from his Unknown.  
      “I don’t think I can,” he mumbled.  
      “You’ve got to get over this, Harry!” said Hermione. “He’s not the person we thought he was when we were kids.”  
      “There’s no need to tell me that,” Harry said, “I want to put it behind me! I just — just don’t know how! I just feel nervous, and out of sorts. And —and I seem to say the most embarrassing things. And get more clumsy! And I can’t think straight!”

      Hermione was looking at him with an oddly intense appraisal. “Have you always felt this way?”  
      “Ever since the war,” Harry said; even thinking about it made his eye start twitching. “See! Look at this!” He threw up his hands in frustration. “I can’t even think about him without getting hot and cold and twitchy!”

      “Oh, Harry!” Hermione clapped a hand to her rounded mouth.  
      “What is it?” asked Harry.  
      “N-nothing. I wonder...” she shook her head, “I don’t know.”  
      Harry began to tap his fingers on his knees, jiggling his legs so they bounced rapidly up and down. The rhythm soothed his jangled nerves. He wanted to write to the Unknown. To hear the comforting and clever responses, but then he remembered the most recent note. His first reaction had been anger that his gift had inspired such a curt response. Except it was Harry who had inveighed, and at great length, against falsity and double edged words. In a sense the Unkown had done him the honor of telling the truth— And it was then that he had the shiversome insight, that was probably obvious to any rational person: that their correspondence had metamorphosed into a kind of courtship.

A courtship.

As he thought back, he realized that it was their discussion of this very subject that had changed the tenor of the letters from his asking advice of an invisible mentor to a kind of long-distance friendship. The other signs were all there—the gifts, the eager receiving of letters. Everything but physical proximity. And it wasn’t the unknown wizard who could not court Harry in person—it was Harry who couldn’t be courted in person, and he somehow knew it. Harry had no idea what to do. His emotions were such a mess already, and his head so scrambled, that he figured it couldn’t possibly get much worse.

      “I’m going to do it!” Harry said, suddenly, standing up abruptly. “I’m going to ask Snape!”  
      Hermione smiled at him, “good for you!” She didn’t mention that it might be odd, at nearly ten o’clock at night, dropping in unannounced. Instead: in an uncharacteristic show of emotion she hugged him tightly. “Do it now. Before you change your mind.”

      That turned out to be the best advice she could have given. If he had waited any longer he would have talked himself out of the recklessness of visiting Snape’s rooms. As it was he nearly ran away when the door opened at his knock, to reveal six foot of lean muscles. Snape was shirtless, and wearing only a pair of dark pajama trousers that clung to his legs. Harry gulped.  
      “Potter?” Snape’s voice was deep and gruff. For a second he looked as startled as Harry felt, before the usual mask of composure fell over his face.

      “Uh...hi?” The word came out sounding way too much like a squeak. The squeak factor was partly due to the fact that with every shallow breath, Harry inhaled Snape’s hot-off-the-sheets scent. He must’ve had a shower before bed, and that sleepy soapy skin smell was even more alarming than the fear that slithered up and down Harry’s vertebrae.  
      “Oh, sorry,” Snape said, not sounding sorry at all. “Is there something I missed? Did we have an —appointment?”  
      “Appointment?” Harry repeated. “I’m not…we don’t... I wanted to ask you something.”  
      “Is that right?” He seemed unimpressed.  
      Harry requested with an effort, “Could I come in for a few minutes?”  
      “Of-course.” Amusement threaded Snape’s cool voice as he backed up and held the door open for Harry to enter. 

      His black hair was unruly — for Snape. Instead of long sleek lines, it was mussed and feathery. His eyes were very dark in his pale face. His features too harsh to be good-looking, with his hooked nose and menacing brows. He looked…mean. But he wasn’t unapproachable, despite his six feet of strong bones and hard muscle. Harry knew he was someone who could be trusted, and he wanted to figure out whether anything deeper was going on with Tamara.

      Rushing through an explanation, his words tumbling over one another to get out, he did his best to explain about the veritaserum and the alcohol and the memoirs and the feeling he had that Galdran had been quite invested in whatever questions Tamara had planned to ask him. Snape didn’t interrupt or ridicule him, he listened quietly until Harry had run out of steam. Then he looked straight into Harry’s eyes — and unbidden, a sharp pang of confused longing stabbed through Harry’s chest.  
      “I had never looked into a connection between the Merindar and Chamadis families,” Snape began slowly. “But, there could be something important that I have overlooked.”

      Looking contemplative, he Summoned a red leather book from his bookcase and lay it on the low coffee table. Harry couldn’t help but watch the way his muscles rippled as he sank down onto the only sofa in the room. Uncertain about what to do, Harry tapped his hand on his thigh and surveyed the sitting area. It was one of the larger sitting rooms, but sparsely furnished, as though Snape preferred an uncluttered aesthetic. Thinking of the walls of potions ingredients that cluttered his office and classrooms made Harry feel like stepping into this room was to see a whole other side of Snape’s personality.  
      On one wall there was an elegant fireplace between two long built in bookshelves. There was no desk, or office supplies, but there was a cherry coloured sideboard holding a wine rack. After perusing the bookshelves, Harry watched Snape for a while, but Snape didn’t look up from the book for some time.

      At last, when Harry was beginning to wonder if he should just leave, Snape got to his feet again. He didn’t look Harry’s way, but took a few graceful steps over to the sideboard and selected a bottle of wine.  
      “I think — perhaps, that we have a lot to talk about. And I wonder, considering the tension that usually accompanies our interactions.” He paused and his eyes nearly seemed to twinkle as he cast a gleaming glance in Harry’s direction. “I’m sorry that your experience with alcohol was not particularly pleasant... However, one glass of wine can be relaxing, would you be adverse to drinking one with me while we converse?”  
      “Um...sure”  
      Snape opened the wine with quick efficiency, and poured Harry a glass. Their fingers brushed as he took it – though why Harry noticed that was mystifying. He took a sip. A very nice pinot noir. He took another sip, and sat down cautiously on the sofa where Snape was indicating.

      “What we need to consider, regarding the Merindar-Chamadis connection... is that it was the Chamadis branch of the wizarding family who originally exploited the colorwoods...” said Snape conversationally.  
      “You mean,” said Harry. “They started the war?? The Forest War of the Tree Folk?”  
      Snape gave Harry a look that was almost approving and the room began to feel very warm — the effect of wine and Snape’s approbation.  
      “Yes. It was Conic Chamadis who led the group of wizards who were cutting down the colorwoods, and driving the Tree Folk from their homes.”

      “Not many people know about the Tree Folk...anymore...”  
      Snape sipped at his wine, and Harry found himself distracted by the sight of him swallowing.  
      “That’s true. So few remember the histories, that it has almost become a way to protect the colorwoods, and the Tree Folk, through wizarding ignorance. But even if something falls out of general memory of a society. Within certain families, information is passed down from one generation to another, and the information I have so far — is that Galdran at least, knows about the magical properties of the trees in the Forbidden Forest.“  
      “Do you think he would dare to cut any of them down? Steal and sell them for a profit?”

      As they talked Harry became more and more alarmed by the evidence that Snape was gathering. It seemed as though Galdran truly intended to break the Covenant, regardless of the Code of War that would then be in effect. While his indignation grew hotter, Harry began to tap at his thighs in agitation. The smell of the wine and the crackling fire, the warmth of the room and the scent of Snape’s aftershave and flannel pants had a weird effect on him. He became conscious of his bare fingers hammering a tattoo on his legs — and that Snape was watching his hands with close attention.  
      He said at random, “I need another glass I think.”  
There was an intense pause — as though Snape wasn’t sure if it was wise. He wasn’t scared of Harry embarrassing him, right? So what was the big deal?  
      “Alright. This is a particularly good bottle.”  
      “Mmmm I think so too.” said Harry.  
      He gave Harry an ironic look. “Do you have much to base that assessment on?”  
      Harry flushed. “Well…no. To be honest. But it’s nice now and then.” And he smiled at Snape, an open honest smile of genuine amusement.

      Snape froze, staring at him for several heartbeats. He cleared his throat. “Y-yes, it is very —nice...”

      He refilled the glasses and instead of sitting back down on the sofa he slid onto the floor. Leaning his back against the side of the sofa, and staring into the fire. Harry observed him from under his eyelashes. His powerful body was relaxed and graceful, one arm resting on an upraised knee, the other leg stretched out before him. In the muted light he looked almost attractive, Harry thought, and then had to bite back a laugh.

      “Is something funny?” he asked, catching Harry by surprise.  
      “No... but I never imagined I’d be having a glass of wine with Professor Snape... and trying to figure out a mystery together.”  
      Silence then, but for the the clink of their glasses when they lifted them up or down, the crackle of the fireplace and the howl of the wind, from outside his window.  
      “It doesn’t stop, does it?” Harry said, lifting his head to listen.  
      “What’s that?”  
      “The wind.”  
      “No. This room is built by a natural wind tunnel sidewall. It doesn’t stop.” His head lifted and there was  
a gleam in his eyes.

      Harry felt his mouth tugging into another smile at the challenging look. He said, “No, I am not spooked by it. I’m not afraid of the dark, either. Or ghosts.”  
      Snape actually grinned. And Harry’s heart nearly stopped. He had one hell of smile — when he let himself smile for real instead of that usual sardonic  
twist. And in that moment he was more beautiful than Savona could ever be.  
      “Or lions or tigers or bears,” Harry added, ludicrously, remembering an old preschool nursery rhyme.  
      “Oh my,” he murmured right on cue, one Muggle raised child to another.  
      And they both laughed. For real. A shared moment, and a genuine laugh.

      After that it was a little easier — another bottle of wine helped. Snape asked about the other things Harry had found in his research of the Chamadis family. They laughed a little about his descriptions of Lady Ardis and her similarity to Tamara. It warmed Harry more to hear Snape’s realistic and clever assessments of Tamara’s more subtle attempts to glamour him. “But I think you’re right, I don’t think she is only ambitious in her hopes for a lover. It is also financial. So if Galdran is after the colorwoods, I would not be at all surprised to find she was involved also.”  
      That sobered Harry fast. “Not at all?”

      “I’m afraid not. Keep in mind that no-one of this generation has actually seen the Tree Folk. And magical creatures have never been very well treated. She probably doesn’t realise the consequences of Galdran’s plans.”  
      Harry shook his head. “I’ve seen them. The Hill Folk. And anyone who took the time to love and respect the Forest would see them as well.”  
      Snape looked unconvinced, and for some reason it seemed important that he be convinced.  
      Harry said, “I‘m not anything special. And I didn’t do them any great favours or anything like that. Yet they include me in their music, and show me their faces.”  
      “Perhaps you underestimate your own uniqueness.”  
      Harry frowned. “That seems like an odd thing for my biggest critic to say.”  
      “I’m not your biggest critic. Although you haven’t noticed it, it’s not exactly a secret.”  
      Maybe he didn’t mean to sound as brusque as he did. Maybe he was just used to being intimidating.       “What’s not a secret? Is there something you’re not telling me?”  
      His mouth did the sardonic thing. “Not really.”  
      “So there was something?”  
      Amused, he said, “How do you work that out?”  
      “Well, if there was nothing, you’d have said nothing, but you said, not really, so there is something.”  
He studied Harry’s face for a moment.       Harry had had a lot to drink, and he wondered if it showed. He didn’t feel as far gone as he had been at the Christmas party, he wasn’t slurring or anything but he felt very…relaxed.  
      Snape was speaking slowly, “Yeah, there is something…”  
      And he leaned across and kissed Harry on his open and astonished mouth.


	13. The Encounter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Bold is Harry**  
>  ———  
> This short chapter includes a remix of scenes from A Ghost of a Chance, a lovely Novella by Josh Lanyon. If you want the full picture, do yourself a favour and read some Lanyon ;)

      Since Snape, like Harry, seemed a little on the socially inept side Harry was taken aback by the skill of that kiss. Snape didn’t look like an expert in seduction, but that mouth — pressing coolly and firmly against his — was full of passion. Harry found himself wondering hazily who would have dared kiss Snape…and what he was doing kissing him, of all people. It wasn’t a practiced kiss, like Savona’s. But it was much more intoxicating. When they finally broke apart, Harry was struggling more than usual to find words.  
      “Uh…all right, I, um... I suppose I’m confused... you don’t like me — I know you don’t — so I...”  
      His thick black brows shot up as though Harry had genuinely startled him. “Where do you get the idea I don’t like you?”  
      “You haven’t made any secret about it. You didn’t like me from the moment you first laid eyes on me. Nothing about me has changed.” In the amber light of the glowing fire, Snape’s face looked stern and golden — like a funerary mask. It seemed a long time ago, that first meeting. Almost irrelevant.  
      He spoiled the image by smiling. Harry was sure that until that night he had never seen him smile before — not a genuine, friendly smile — and now he’d seen it twice.  
      “That’s not true.” Snape sounded amused. “It’s quite the opposite. I like you too much.”  
      He reached over and carefully removed Harry’s glasses. Harry blinked at him uncertainly. The muted firelight turned Snape into a fuzzy shadow. He had the impression of gleaming eyes and five o’clock shadow, and then he found Harry’s mouth again, parting his lips with gentle insistence. It was the gentleness that undid him. The gentleness, and the vision of Snape’s smile, gorgeous and hypnotic.  
      That, and way too much wine, and not enough sleep, and confusion about the Unknown and…  
      A lot of excuses for giving into what simply felt…great.

      Harry found himself tipping back, big hands cradling him as he landed on the rug where Snape had been sitting. His kiss deepened, heated. Still gentle, but now exploring…Harry lay in his arms responding without hesitation, his hunger surprising even to himself. He ran his hands along Snape’s shirtless sides, touching the ripples of muscle that he had been caressing with his eyes all evening. His body was warm and pale and lean; muscle tensing and relaxing beneath Harry’s fingers as he shifted position. It felt amazing to hold onto someone, to feel bare skin. He wanted more. Needed more. 

      Snape’s fingers worked the buttons of Harry’s shirt, his mouth still insistent, his knee insinuating itself between Harry’s legs. Harry’s shaking hands fastened on the waist of Snape’s pants and he slid them down. Sweat broke out on his forehead, his breath came fast. He felt wild, out of control with wanting him. Wanting him now.       “Oh, Merlin,” Harry groaned. 

      Snape didn’t say a word, his breath fast and rough and scented not unpleasantly of spices and wine. Harry’s natural instinct was to be vocal, but Snape’s silent intensity shut him up. Harry bit his lip as they ground against each other, fast and frantic like this had been on their minds from the first meeting by McGonagall’s death bed — which was crazy. The slide and slap of feverish bodies. Harry yelled and bumped his head into Snape’s shoulder, pressing his mouth to the hollow there, somewhere between nipping and nuzzling.

      When that blood-hot spill erupted between them a shudder rippled through Snape, but he still didn’t say anything. Just expelled a long heated sigh against Harry’s ear, stirring his messy hair.

      They lay there for a few moments, recovering their breath. Snape’s powerful arms felt good about him, comfortable. Right.

      Harry realised he liked to be held; he wanted that moment to last for ever. To rest in those arms for as long as he could rest. Not that resting could be forever. He felt stunned at what he’d —they’d—done.  
      On the carpet of Snape’s sitting room no less.  
      “Wow,” Harry said finally.  
      Snape gave a short laugh and let him go. Harry was sorry about that. Sorry as he lifted off Harry and moved away. Dazedly, he felt around for his glasses. Snape’s fingers closed on them and passed them back. When Harry’s gaze refocused on Snape’s face, he watched the gentleness fade and a shuttered, stone-like expression descend on his face that was totally at odds with the passion that he had just shown.  
      “I begin to see the attraction,” he drawled, his lips twisting, his eyes blank black orbs.  
      “What’s that?”  
      He said clearly and calmly, “Now I understand why so many people are desperate to get their hands on the Boy Who Lived.”  
      It took a moment for the meaning of his words to sink in.  
      Harry stared at the impassive face with the even voice. That’s what came of having sex with people who you didn’t like — and who didn’t like you. And how stupid was it that Harry felt like he’d been slapped?  
He got up in one quick movement. He thought Snape tensed — it was hard to tell in the dim light, but maybe he’d had a lot of experience with people wanting to hit him after sex. He stared up at Harry, apparently waiting for some reaction.  
      “Yeah, well there’s no accounting for taste,” Harry said. “Mine in particular.” And for the first time in his life, the right words had come at the right time. But he felt no satisfaction as he made his exit, heading for the door.  
      Snape didn’t say a word and Harry left him there in the shadows.  
      Making it back to his room, he took out a piece of note paper and wrote only two lines to his Unkown:  
      **Today has given me much to think about.  
      Will you wear the ring, then, if I ask you to? **

     He received no answer the next day, or even that night. And so Harry sat through the Easter Feast and tried not to stare at Aurora’s profile next to Snape, while feeling a profound sense of unhappiness, which he attributed to the silence from his Unknown. And guilt over what had happened in Snape’s rooms.

      The next morning brought no note, but a single flower. Consulting Neville, he found that it was a hyacinth which could symbolise constancy, sincerity or... a plea for forgiveness. Sincerity made the most sense in the context of Harry’s last question, and he knew that the quaffle was in his hands, as far as the control over the mystery of the Unknown’s identity.


	14. Snape’s Courtship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Bold is Harry**  
>  _Italics is the Unknown_  
>  ———

      Harry had managed to avoid discussing his disastrous visit to Snape’s rooms with Hermione, and the days immediately following passed very swiftly. Now that the new term had begun, the steady work load, which had lightened for a week, inundated them steadily. Harry spent much of his spare time in the Forest, playing his music and listening. He noticed worried conversations once in a while, among the smaller creatures who considered themselves beneath his notice. The Tree Folk seemed as serene and disconnected as ever. The Centaurs didn’t speak to him, and if they called for Snape again, he didn’t know. But he found himself almost constantly aware of Snape’s whereabouts, whether consciously or subconsciously.

      Meanwhile, the peculiar life of Hogwarts continued. Galdran still led with jovial insincerity, yet the original vision of the school was somehow carried forward, and most of the faculty who managed the flow of student life seemed content with things as they were. Not so the more serious of the staff, but as yet the questions everyone most wanted to ask—”Why is Galdran so often absent? Why is he so unconcerned about the school? What takes up his time?”—were as yet discussed only in quiet corners of informal living rooms. 

      And so, on the surface, all was serene enough. Hermione remained suspicious but did not press him for details of what had occurred, and Nee continued to comfortably keep Harry company over a hot chocolate and early breakfast every morning. Harry knew that Neville had begun working with Snape to add the magical plant life of the Forbidden Forest to his map, because he often asked Harry for advice or input. But Snape and Harry never spoke.

      Tamara held a weekly informal parties in the staff rooms which Harry avoided, and spent most of her time with Snape; Padma continued to flirt with Harry; Savona continued his extravagant compliments; Harry was often socialising, and he smiled and conversed, with only minor tics in his twitches and tapping. Yet on most evenings, Harry felt the pangs of regret, for his moment of weakness with Snape. He wanted to blame the alcohol. But he had been far more drunk the night that Savona took him back to his room from the Christmas Party, and he hadn’t even considered the possibility of undressing him. Let alone anything else. He felt Snape owed him an explanation, or an apology, two things he could not bring himself to request—when he had been as much a willing participant as Snape in what they had done—but their parting words continued to trouble him.

      So he hugged to himself the knowledge of his Unknown. No matter how his emotions veered during social occasions, or when he made eye contact with Snape, it was comforting to realize that he would return to his room and find a letter from the person whose opinions and thoughts he had come to value most. And so, for a handful of weeks anyway, things went right back to normal. Except, what is normal at any given time? We change just as the seasons change, and each spring brings new growth. So nothing is ever quite the same.

      Despite his vivid memories of his encounter with Snape, and reliving it nightly in his dreams; Harry preferred courtship by paper. No one felt a fool, no one got hurt. And yet—and yet—though he loved getting those letters, as the days went by he became increasingly impatient with certain restraints that he felt were imposed on their communications.  
      Like discussing current events and people.  
      They continued to range over historical events, or the current popular topics such as the Ortali blossom’s properties in medicinal potions or the latest in wizarding poetry and music—all subjects that Harry could have discussed with any friend.

      One evening, after lying sleepless in bed for an hour, memories of Snape’s lips and body running through his mind, he heard the familiar tap of the owl at its door, and opened a letter from the Unknown. Feeling unsettled, Harry decided to change everything. Having scanned down the well-written comparison of two books about the Ministers of Magic in Muggle Politics, he wrote: 

      **I can find it in myself to agree with the main points, that wizards ought not to be prime ministers or kings, and that the two kinds of power are better left in the charge of different persons.  
      But I must confess that the political mistakes and disasters of our ancestors seems a minor issue right now. The problems of wicked wizard-kings are as distant as those the War of the Forest, and what occupies my attention now are problems closer to home. Everyone seems to whisper about the strange activities of Galdran, but as yet no one seems willing to speak aloud..**

****

****

**And Severus Snape, who seems the most suitable to stand up to Galdran —if the Headmaster is contemplating awful or destructive things— well... the rumours are that he is distracted by the woman who courts him. However, from my observations it is Aurora Sinistra and not Tamara Chamadis who is most likely to win his heart. How will this effect the course of events within the school? Have you any insights on the actions of the powerful figures of our current generation?**

      He wrestled for a moment, with the thought of confessing what had happened with Snape that night. He felt that his Unknown might feel betrayed by such thoughtless actions, and he deserved honesty. But he couldn’t bring himself to put into words something that he didn’t even understand himself. So he sent the letter as it was, and fell into a restless sleep full of strange dreams.  
      When he awoke, he hastily sat up in bed, and snatched up the letter that was awaiting him on the bedside table. He sank back down onto his pillows, and broke the seal with his finger.

      The Unknown had written:

      _You ask, I think, how Severus’ courtships will affect Hogwarts School... I think this question is better addressed to the person most concerned, but he would perhaps consider the affairs of his heart irrelevant to the important matters of the leadership of Hogwarts. I do know this: None of the steps that Galdran has taken have been as secretive as he believes. And if a confrontation comes before he can be exposed, Severus will certainly stand up to him. As far as the personal? All I know is that Tamara has no chance of achieving her goals with Severus Snape._

      Harry stared at the letter. The unspoken implication was, of course, that Aurora and Snape were in love. But there was no wisdom offered as to how that might affect the school. Or affect Harry personally. Not that it should affect him... at all. But he found he had no answer to send to that letter; that thinking about Snape, or the unspoken truth of his attachment to Aurora, caused a cold ache inside, as if he had lost something he had not hitherto valued.

      So he didn’t write back that day. Or the next. 

      The following morning Harry was surprised to find that Aurora Sinistra had come to breakfast unusually early and was sitting with Nimiar. He tamped down a wave of irrational anger at her intrusion. As he approached them from behind, the sound of Aurora’s laughter, and then her voice, talking swiftly, drifted back to him. She seemed happy over something specific, and Harry did not know how to react, so he backed away from the Great Hall and turned to find himself face to face with Severus Snape.

      Before he could make an immediate retreat, Snape spoke, “Professor Potter, I would appreciate your advice on something, will you sit with me over breakfast?”  
      Surges of curiosity, dread, uncertainty and confusion deluged him. In the end curiosity won out over residual hurt feelings, and Harry decided to accept the olive branch that Snape seemed to be offering.


	15. Alihotsy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Parts of this chapter are also remixed moments from The Darkling Thrush, a lovely novel by Josh Lanyon.

      Harry found himself agreeing to Snape’s request and retracing his steps to the Great Hall. As they joined the table he sneaked a glance at Aurora. She was still talking animatedly with Nee. She didn’t even look up as he and Snape took their seats. Helping himself to his usual breakfast preferences, Harry waited for Snape to broach the topic of his request for advice, but Snape seemed content to serve himself and begin eating in a leisurely way.  
      Picking up his spoon, and trying not to clang silver on china, Harry cursed Snape inwardly, for making Harry acutely aware of every move he made — and the fact that most of them were wrong by Snape’s standards. In between mouthfuls Harry stole looks at Snape, flushing whenever he did so, and bracing himself for some annihilating comment about his red face, or messy eating style, but Snape seemed preoccupied. He was dressed as usual in well made- robes that flattered his tall,lithe form. He turned, and their hands touched as they both reached for the bowl of fruit. Snape had broken his reverie and looked at Harry quizzically: he had been caught staring.

      Harry said with as careless a tone as he could muster, “It will be summer soon, and you’ll be rid of me for a few months.”  
      Snape’s face tightened. “Three weeks to go.”  
      There was some kind of emotion there. Something that he couldn’t disguise. But Harry couldn’t guess what it was.  
      “Will you spend the summer in the Forest?” asked Snape.  
      “Yeah. And you’ll stay here?” Harry said; it was less of a question and more of a statement. For a moment Snape said nothing, only contemplated Harry with that light, unrevealing gaze. After what felt like too long, he said neutrally, “I’m likely to stay…at Hogwarts.”  
      “Oh.”  
      The conversation faltered, and Harry took a big mouthful of muesli, to occupy himself. He was still thinking over the tight expression he’d glimpsed earlier and the blank mask Snape had put on, when the subject changed abruptly. “The reason I wanted to speak to you... was to relay some information I’ve received.” He waved his wand casually, but Harry recognised the spell was one that would grant them privacy to speak without their words being noticed by others who joined the table.  
      A chill rippled down his spine. “About Galdran?”  
      “Yes.”  
      “Well, what?” Harry asked a little impatiently.  
      “They’re only days away from breaking the Covenant,” Snape said, gravely. “The Merindars and their allies. They have figured out the location of the colorwoods, without our help. They are going to move into the Forest as soon as the last of their allies arrive in Hogsmeade.”  
      “How many of them are there?” Harry asked, incredulously. “Surely that kind of gathering is hard to hide...”

      “Yes, if you know what you are looking for it would be difficult to miss. But they have been arriving in ones and twos, all with their own reasons for travelling to this region. If it weren’t for my interest in Galdran’s movements I wouldn’t have noticed it myself. But there is a further threat that many of the allies themselves do not know, I’m sure, because I happened upon it only by accident.”

      “Tell me,” Harry said, gripping his hands together.  
      “Pallets of supplies, arrived at Hogsmeade Station,” Snape said, grimacing. “I came across them on my circuit of Hogsmeade. Supposed to be paving stone for road-building, and there was some, but only a thin layer. Under it—I know the smell—cut and stacked Alihotsy.”  
      “Alihotsy?” Harry repeated. “They’ve gathered Alihotsy? What for? How will a laughing potion, or mass hysteria help their cause?”  
      Snape shook his head, smiling bleakly. “Not a laughing potion, think deeper than that.” His eyes, black and limitless, met Harry’s.  
      Harry let his own eyes go unfocused as he thought about what he knew about Alihotsy. “Laughing potion... flavouring... hysteria...”

      “Those are all uses for finely chopped Alihotsy,” Snape said. “Think beyond that. What else can be done with it?”  
      “It could be planted, as a border of a garden... it could be soaked with vinegar to help remove stains from fabric... it could be burnt... to...” he stopped. “Surely, they wouldn’t,” his head snapped up and he stared at Snape, horrified. “If they burnt a large quantity in the Forest it would be fatal to the Hill Folk!”

      Snape’s face was sober. After a moment, he said, “Easiest way to get the would unmolested.”  
      Harry moved to stand up, but Snape’s hand darted out and gripped his under the table where no-one could see it, holding him there. “You’re angry. But don’t allow your temper to blind you to the real danger here.”  
      Harry stared down at his bowl, the oats softening into a mushy blend. “There is no danger. Surely there’s enough people that would care? We could gather them together and confront them?”  
      “There are too many powerful witches and wizards on Galdran’s side, and they have been careful not to do anything that would necessitate MLE involvement.” If he had used that superior tone or spoken with his usual impatience, Harry could have ignored him…but he said it quietly, almost kindly. “I know there have been times in your life when rushing in without a plan was an effective way to solve problems. This is not one of them.”

      “But isn’t taking wood from the Forest stealing? Shouldn’t Magical Law Enforcement prosecute Galdran?” asked Harry, heatedly.  
      “You would do well not to underestimate Galdran” he said suddenly, softly. “His enemies have the tendency to disappear. He has friends in powerful positions. And as the Headmaster of Hogwarts, what happens in the Forbidden Forest is technically under his discretionary powers.”

      Harry frowned, and he felt an additional prickle of disquiet. Snape’s smile was thin. “You look uneasy.” He added, “But then, I make you nervous at the best of times.”  
      Heat flooded Harry’s face. So much for concealing his reaction to Snape. It wasn’t remotely logical, but Harry was somehow more aware of him —and had been from the first day he’d seen him — than anyone on the planet. Belatedly he tried to analyze what that reaction was, it made sense when he had seen him as the villain of his life story —second only to Voldemort... but it didn’t explain why he still felt…like he was standing on unsteady ground in Snape’s presence.  
      Snape was giving Harry a long level look, assessing, if his expression was any indication, what kind of rash actions Harry might be planning.  
      “You’re trouble, Harry Potter, I recognised it from the moment I first saw you standing here in the Great Hall with your hair in your eyes and glasses all smudged. At the time I just didn’t realise exactly what kind of trouble you would be.”  
      That sounded obscurely open to interpretation. Harry felt breathless. “And what kind of trouble am I?”  
      “You... like to jump first and ask questions later. I on the other hand, rarely do so, and the few times I have...” he winced ever so slightly, “have been mistakes I’m unlikely to recover from.”  
      This was more obscure than ever. But Harry didn’t have time to analyse the nuances. Snape was rising from the table. “The inhabitants of the Forest are relatively forgotten and unprotected.” he said. “The pallets of Alihotsy that I discovered have been rendered inflammable. However they are sure to source more. So the first thing to do is communicate the danger to the Hill Folk. I will speak to the Centaurs, you make contact with the Hill Folk. Then we must make a plan.”

      He lifted the privacy spell in one graceful motion and was gone, his robes billowing menacingly behind him. Harry sat for a few moments longer, he was still contemplating the conversation when Aurora moved past him, as always, with impervious serenity and reserve. She and Snape had not exchanged a word or even a shared glance through the entire meal.

Harry knew, because he had watched carefully for it.


	16. The Hill Folk

      The broom-ride to the eastern-most part of the Forest, where the colorwoods were located, took five hours. Harry stopped once, to catch his breath, but he didn’t dare break up the journey too much. He didn’t want the story of his time off work due to sickness to be investigated, and if he were gone too long it was possible that Galdran might bypass Madam Pomfrey and look into his absence himself.

      As the day went on, the air got colder. He flew down from the tree tops into the undergrowth, and as the woods closed around him again, he forgot about the discomfort. He was breathing the scents of home again, the indefinable combination of loam and moss and wood and fern that had brought him comfort and peace over ten years of mental suffering. The woods were quiet, except for the occasional tapping of raindrops on leaves and, once or twice, the crash and scamper of hidden creatures.

      As he flew, he sensed presence.

      All around him was the moist fragrance of age and mold and heat. Green creepers tumbled down in cascades of vines. Tall green shapes — moss-covered tree trunks of pine, yew, sycamore, oak and beech — rose spectral-like from the verdant waves. Here and there a branch stuck out in supplication or a flower peeped up from the greenery. At one point he flew over a family of forest trolls, who had been rooting through the crust of leaves and debris. They froze, staring up at him, before returning to their foraging.

      In general, though, the creatures of the Forest kept themselves hidden. Harry picked his way along a flight path nearly closed off by rioting undergrowth, until the beginning of the sixth hour when he descended into a gorgeous valley. On slightly raised ground above a fork in a creek was a paved circle of quartz at the centre of a copse of trees.

      Beneath a shifting layer of dust and dead leaves, an occasional sparkle caught the tendrils of sunlight that drifted down through the undergrowth. Tufts of knotgrass grew in the cracks. Several flocks of Doxies could be seen flitting in and out of the long grasses. All around him grew smooth, barkless trees whose boles were a brilliant variety of colors—crimson, amber, gold, pumpkin. High in their branches floated the silver-leaves that seemed to take on a metallic glow before they fell. Harry knew from prior visits that these leaves were enchanted things, especially in the pearlescent light of dawn and in the slanting golden glow of sunset. 

      Between the trees, there were unicorns grazing on the sweet, emerald grasses. As Harry landed, they trotted away, fading from view. The silence around him was deep, apart from the rush and chuckle of the creek, and the sporadic sound of birds. The memory of Snape’s words — "relatively forgotten and unprotected” — drifted through his mind, and his heart clenched at the thought of the Hill Folk murdered and these centuries old trees ravaged for their wood.

      A fine rain still fell, and the trees dripped on him, spattering his face with cold water. He reached into his pocket and withdrew his reed pipes. He breathed deeply. Strong was the green smell of wet loam and forest. Lifting the pipes to his lips, he began to play the music that was in his heart. The windborne music floated above him, its strange, age-old patterns not quite melodies.  
      Harry blinked. Had he heard an accompaniment?  
      He lifted his head and listened, but heard nothing other than the rustle of rain in the leaves overhead. The birds had gone quiet. Yet he felt watchers.  
      And so, tired as he was, he tipped back his head and began to play once again. This time the song that came to him was dry and scratchy —a warning—, almost unpleasant to hear. He played louder, and echoes rang off the paved circle and the trees and down into hollows. After a time his tune dropped into a husky dirge —overlaid with exhaustion and fear— but as the sun came out from the clouds, directly overhead, he heard a rustle, and he was surrounded by Hill Folk, more of them than he had ever seen at once before.

      They did not speak. Somewhere in the distance he heard the breathy, slightly sinister cry of a reed pipe taking over where he had left off.  
      Harry began to talk, not knowing if they understood his words, or whether they could lift the images from his mind, or whether his attempts to communicate were woefully inadequate. The Hill Folk did not seem to have a response to anything he was saying. He told them of Galdran’s plans, and the pallets of alihotsy in Hogsmeade, and finally exhorted them to go anywhere they could think of and hide, and that Snape and Harry would first get rid of the alihotsy, then find a way to keep the Covenant.  
      When Harry ran out of words, for a long painful pause there was that eerie stillness, so soundless yet full of presence. Then they moved, their barky hides dappling with shadows, until they disappeared with a rustling sound like wind through casuarina trees.

           Harry was alone again, but he felt no sense of danger. He lifted his broom, but before he could mount it, a single unicorn stepped into the paved circle, raised her head and blinked at him. She didn’t break eye contact, but knelt down on her forelegs, flicking her mane in a clear message that he was to ride.

      Harry slid onto her silky back, and twisted his hands in her soft mane to hold on as she rose. She began calmly walking with him in the opposite direction to Hogwarts. After a while, when Harry had just thought to himself that he was thirsty, she stopped at a stream. He drank deeply of the sweet, cold water and splashed his face until it was numb. Then she knelt once more. From time to time as he rode, quick flutings of reed pipes echoed from hill to hill, and from very far away, the rich chordal hum of the distant windharps answered. These sounds lifted his spirits. Though the unicorn was making steady progress, he was beginning to wonder whether he should be letting her take him away to an unknown destination.  
      But before he could formulate a different plan, she stopped abruptly. He clambered down ungracefully. Looking around he felt as though this part of the Forest had slipped into a kind of dream existence. There was a ephemeral fog hanging over them, but there was nothing else to mark it as special or important. 

      Harry turned to the unicorn, confused. She reared up on her hind legs and when they came down her hooves smashed against the ground with a metallic clang. Startled, Harry moved in to examine the place that she had indicated. Pulling back the vines and greenery he found a metal trapdoor into the hill beside them, as wide and tall as the doors into the Great Hall at Hogwarts. With a wave of his wand, the trapdoor swung outwards and up. Opening to reveal a tunnel going into the earth, smoothly paved and stretching endlessly.

           Jumping down into the tunnel, Harry lit his wand and looked off into the formidable darkness stretching out westward. There was a strange quality to the tunnel that burned at his eyes, as though there was something acidic about the air within the tunnel. Blinking he gave himself time to adjust. The tunnel did not appear to be dug out with tools, but rather it was the absence of dirt and rock, as thought the space had eaten itself away into the depth of the earth.

           He grimly considered flying back to consult with Snape. However, if this tunnel led to Hogsmeade, like he suspected, there might not be time for planning. There was a settled fog on the floor of the tunnel. It lay on the ground like a thick layer of dust that seemed to be seeping into his body, feeding him a lethargy that was beyond tiredness, where nothing seemed real. Uncertain about what he would be dealing with, Harry cast a bubble-headed charm to protect himself from noxious fumes or gasses, mounted his broom and began flying warily down the tunnel, without looking back.

               Harry flew briskly for several hours, but the tunnel didn’t change. The ground beneath him undulated gently and the rounded emptiness went straight through the ground without deviation. It ate through tree roots and boulders, as though they had been dipped in an acid that stopped as soon as it had created the curve of the walls. He flew above the low lying fog on the paved floor of the tunnel, but his feet and knees and fingers were numb with cold. After another hour, he sent his Patronus galloping back the way he had come, with a message for Hermione.

                He was almost immediately glad he had done so, because when he topped the next rise in the tunnel he flew out unceremoniously into a large shed, ten times the width of the Great Hall, filled with people. Everyone paused in their tasks, and looked up.


	17. Stagecoaches

     It took a moment for Harry’s burning eyes to adjust to the brightness of dozens of lanterns. Inside the shed was a kind of controlled pandemonium. Witches and wizards were everywhere that coaches and thestrals weren’t. Atop a few scattered tables lay maps and piles of parchment, plus a number of bags of coinage. A hundred stagecoaches were drawn up in rows that stretched out in long lines in every direction. There was none of the fog of the tunnel in the large shed, only the faint smell of mold and straw.  
     Stablehands held the bridles of thestrals that were being led from their picket lines to the head of the stage coaches. In a few of the open coaches Harry could see people stacking an intricately layered and deadly arsenal of alihotsy. Harry’s heart started a rapid tattoo inside his chest.  
     But he stayed where he was was. A hundred stagecoaches. Black in colour, with headlamps attached to the front. Thestrals, tossing their shiny reptilian heads, throwing back long black manes, white eyes gleaming eerily. Hundreds of pairs of eyes on him. At least fifty wands pointed in his direction. The lone wizard who had stumbled into the shed uninvited.

     He couldn’t be in worse trouble than he already was. There was no use in trying to escape ...  
     “Halt,” he said, in a commanding tone that carried into the silence that was falling.  
     The wizard closest to him had already paused, but Harry felt it sounded good to begin on an aggressive note. He kept his raised wand hand ready.  
     “Out of the way,” the man bawled, he was clearly ready to lead the first few coaches to the entrance of the tunnel.  
      “But your way lies out those doors to Hogwarts, if these are the Hogwarts stagecoaches,” Harry pointed.

      The second nearest person, a witch, even bigger and tougher looking than the one who had spoken, climbed down from her place on the coach. She stood in front of Harry, wand raised, squinting up in a decidedly unfriendly manner at where he hovered in the air. She and the wizard exchanged looks, then she said, “We have a delivery to make in yon Forest.”  
     “The Forest has no need of your supplies, you’d best take them that way to the town,” Harry said, pointing. “You’re making a mistake to use this tunnel. It isn’t safe.”  
     They grinned. “That’s a matter for us and not for you. Be about your business, or we’ll have to send you on your way.”  
      “And you won’t like the way we do the sending,” the woman added. They both laughed nastily.  
     Harry kept his wand steady. “You can drop the paving stones in the tunnel if you wish, but you’ll have to take the alihotsy back to Hogsmeade.”  
     Their smiles disappeared.

     “Now, how did you know about that?” the man said. There was no mistaking the threat in his voice. He shifted his grip significantly on his wand.  
     “It’s my business, as you said.” Harry tried his best to sound assured, gripping his own wand in the dueling position.  
     The woman bowed with exaggerated politeness. “And who might you be, Your Royal Highness?” she asked loudly.  
     Then a lazy, drawling voice spoke up from behind them, and a man that Harry had not noticed, emerged from the group. “Surely you recognise him though, Tlanthea?”  
     Harry stared in shock as Draco Malfoy continued. “Look, let me help you,” he used his wand as though it were a Professor’s pointer --and Harry an experimental exhibit. “Item one, shabby, ill-fitting robes, item two, glasses from last century, and item three...” he flicked his wand, and a burst of hot air shot out from it to rise up and brush Harry’s mop of hair off his face, “...a lightening bolt scar.”

     The smiles of his companions diminished, but not all the way. The wizard eyed Harry speculatively for a long breath. “Well, then, Harry Potter. You seem to have had mighty good skill in the past, if half the stories be true, but even if they are, what good’s your skill against this many of us?”  
      “How do you know I don’t have an army of people on their way?” Harry waved his other hand vaguely in a circle.  
      They thought that was richly funny.  
      “Because if you did,” the witch said, “they’d be right here and we wouldn’t be jawin’. Come on, Malfoy, we’ve wasted enough time here. Let’s shift the Chosen One outta there and be on our way.”

      “Now, now, let’s not be hasty,” said Draco and his teeth gleamed in a very cruel grin. He stopped within a pace of Harry, and with no warning whatever, sent a backhanded spell smashing right across Harry’s face. Harry went flying backward, falling from his broom and landing flat on his back in the entrance to the tunnel. The other two sprang to either side of him, and though he fired off stupefying spells before they could grab him, a whole group of others converged, slashing curses at him, and Malfoy himself snatched Harry’s wand from his hands and pulled him to his feet.  
      “What do you have to say now, Hermit?” Malfoy gloated. “You are a fool, the son of a fool, and the biggest—” He cast another spell, and Harry tried to duck, but a wizard grabbed him by the hair and hit him with a cruciatus curse from behind. 

      The world seemed to explode in stars—for a long time all Harry could do was gasp for breath and fight against the excruciating pain and dizziness. When he came out of it, someone had immobilised him with a binding spell; then two more someones levitated him into a stage coach, where he was laid atop the Alihotsy. Harry’s vision was blurry. He realized hazily that one of the curses must have cut his forehead, for a warm trickle ran nastily down the side of his face, which throbbed in staccato beats. Malfoy’s harsh voice echoed around him. “In the good old days, he always had his two side kicks with him.. Weasel and Granger... She was the brains of the operation... Potty will be fine in the coach. Let’s go!”

      A huge, ugly wizard climbed aboard the coach, surveyed Harry, then grinned. He had several teeth missing. He bent closer, peered carefully at Harry, and shook his head. “You’re interfering in things that don’t concern you. Don’t reckon anyone will mind if I have a little fun...” He grinned again, waving his wand around the coach with the air of an artist painting a picture. A criminally insane artist. And a macabre picture. He grinned again. “You see... most people like the cruciatus curse. But I think there’s pain in the visuals. I could just cast a curse and watch you writhe... but I don’t get the pleasure then — of seeing what you think is happening... I prefer this.”

      He motioned to the transformed interior of the stagecoach. Harry’s bound hands and feet were turning numb, but the sights of this wizard’s imagination paralysed his whole body. It was as though they were at the base of steep steps to a dank, nasty-smelling chamber—a real, true-to-nightmare dungeon. Shackles, iron baskets, various prods and knives and whips and other instruments whose purpose Harry didn’t know—and didn’t want to know—were displayed on the walls around two great stained and scored tables.

      There was even a fire, in a metal drum, and as the wizard went about selecting various pincers and brands to lay on a grate in the flames, Harry realised that he was actually transfiguring objects, not just creating illusions. The coach jolted forward and Harry closed his eyes. He wasn’t awake for much of the trip. He kept sliding in and out of consciousness. When conscious, amidst the excruciating pain his companion was inflicting on him, disconnected thoughts flicked through his brain. He remembered vaguely that Hermione truly was the brains in their partnership, and she would be on her way. 

      After the war, before her relationship with Ron had come to a spectacular and explosive end, she had spent months studying and replicating Dumbledore’s Deluminator. It was the way she had found him when he first disappeared into the forest, and he knew that she would find him again. What she would be able to do when she did, was a mystery. Unconsciousness was a welcome respite. But his torturer wasn’t content to let him remain unconscious and kept finding ways to wake him again. 

      Regaining consciousness again, he looked up hazily, seeing the man pull one of his brands out of the fire and move toward Harry, raising it. The sharp smell of red-hot metal made him sneeze—and when he looked up again, the man’s mouth was open with surprise.  
      Harry’s gaze dropped to the vines wrapped tightly in around his chest, which seemed to have sprouted there. But vines don’t sprout, even in illusory dungeons, Harry thought fuzzily, as the torturer fell heavily at his feet. He turned his head, half rising up on his bound hands—  
      And saw Severus Snape standing framed in the doorway of the coach. At his back were four other wizards, with wands drawn and ready. Snape strolled forward, indicated the vines with a neatly gloved hand, and gave Harry a faint smile, but his eyes were gleaming with fury. “I’m sorry the timing was not more advantageous.”

      “Timing wasn’t so bad,” Harry managed to say before the rushing in his ears washed over him, and he passed out cold right next to his torturer.


	18. Sev’s Story

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is the only one from Severus Snape’s perspective

     Only three people knew the full story: Ardis Chamadis, Remulon Malfoy and Hadrian Merindar. But each of them had left a cryptic record for their descendants. Perhaps it was chance, or an alignment of the stars, that Tamara Chamadis, Draco Malfoy and Galdran Merindar each came across their ancestral record in the same year.

     Ardis had illustrated the glory of the colorwoods from their aesthetic and magical perspective. She wrote bitterly of the lost dreams; in which she would have set herself up as queen of wizardkind on a colorwood throne. If only her two lovers had not failed her. The Duel, which Hadrian and Remulon became famous for, was fought on the paved stones beneath the colorwood trees.

     Remulon had left maps. And a short account of the strength of the magic of the Tree People, and the part he had tried to play in capitalising on their riches. 

     It was only Hadrian Merindar who had left anything like a detailed resource, and so it happened that Gladran, who found it, became the centre of the underground connivance. Hadrian’s records came in the form of a highly subjective daily journal of both his tumultuous relationship with Ardis, the quest for the huge, long-lived goldenwoods and bluewoods and greenwoods and redwoods with spectacular unexplored magical properties. 

     He glossed over the events of driving the Tree People from their homes, and the disasters that followed. He explained in detail why the inhabitants of the Forest who rose up against wizardkind, were able to hold them off. For many years after the covenant had been made, Hadrian wrote about his speculations regarding ways to circumvent the Code of War.

     It was the hostility between Ardis’ lovers that became the turning point in the uprising of the Forest Folk. Neither wizard could bear the thought of allowing their rival to take the colorwoods or Ardis. And when their magical might became clearly matched, both chose peace as the only option. They relinquished both their claims on Ardis, and on the colorwoods. Retreating from the Forest, with those who followed them, they promised that they would not return. 

     However, each of them held out hope that a descendant might be the one to succeed where they had failed. It was Hadrian who proposed, in his writings, the massacre of an entire race by the burning of Alihotsy. Desecration by fire. The idea to him was purely theoretical, but Galdran embraced it wholeheartedly.

     The first time Severus had asked Hermione for advice about Harry was soon after Draco made the discovery of his ancestor’s maps. He had placed them in his mentor’s safe keeping. Severus understood that Galdran wanted detailed maps of the Forest plants, to plan the stealing of the colorwoods. He raised his plan to talk to Harry, with Hermione. She urged him to accompany Harry to his cabin in the Forest.  
   “Yes, that’s a great idea! I don’t think it would be good for him to return all alone, he might not be able to bring himself to come back. And as much as he thinks he hates being back here— it has done him a world of good.”  
   “Do you think you could ask him for me?” he asked.  
   “Oh, I’m sorry Severus, I have to leave early today! You should just go ahead and talk to him though. He’ll realise pretty quickly that it’s a good idea.”

   Not so confident about Harry’s receptivity, Snape nonetheless made his way to the young Professor’s classroom after the day’s lessons were completed, to present his proposal. He let himself into the room quickly, spurred on by the thought of Harry heading back into the Forest, alone and uneasy after such a massive term. Eagerness to see him, quickened his steps. Harry’s desk was parallel to the doorway, so his back was to him when Severus entered, and he was rummaging through the cluttered stacks of parchment littering his desk.  
     “Hermione?” Harry said, his voice light and friendly, welcoming and happy in a way that Severus had rarely heard in his presence. “You’ll never believe what I realised today...”

     Severus hesitated for a moment, not wanting to ruin the moment, then said, “It desolates me to disappoint you, but Hermione is not here. I do believe that her departure took place earlier in the day, precipitated by a family emergency of some kind?”  
     Harry spun around, eyes wide in his fine boned face. Green as the glass of a butter beer bottle, or the iridescent dragonfly. There was a flash of embarrassment in his expressive face, followed by irritation. “Glad that you’re desolated... at least...”

     Relieved that Harry had not come at him with anything like the usual antagonism, Severus hurried to put forward his question. But Harry just bristled and snapped back. The situation quickly deteriorated he sustained that inward sickness one gets when one knows, beyond doubt, that everything one has planned so meticulously is completely wrong.

      As a small child, Severus had never understood the fascination that others had for building a tower of blocks only to knock it down. For him, the carefully designed towers of wooden pieces were beautiful works of art that shouldn’t be destroyed, and he took no pleasure in seeing them cast down. Each of his words felt like a carefully placed block that Harry sent tumbling down.

      Letting his mind race for a new strategy to rebuild the conversation, he walked past the desk and began reading through the elaborate scrawling of Harry’s most recent lesson, scurrying across a large black board. “Oh? And what plans might they be?” he said mildly — in his most inoffensive tone.

      “None of your business, I’m sure!” Harry said belligerently, glaring at him with glittering green eyes. “It’s my time off! What’ve you got to do with it?”

      Regroup! Severus’ mind screamed at him: rescue the situation. His palms were damp, his heartbeat quick. He couldn’t look at Harry without the tug of desire distracting him.  
      Windows! He walked towards them. He didn’t remember this classroom having windows, and looking out would give him time to think. As he stood in the sunlit window frame gazing out at an incredible view, he was struck again by how he had misjudged Lily’s son. He had thought him a poor copy of his father — a child with little talent and none of Lily’s fiery intelligence.  
      But he had been wrong. Harry wasn’t a copy of either of his parents. He was a new person. A wizard of intense courage and unbelievable magical talent, that simply didn’t translate well into social discourse or academic jargon. Looking over a view of the Forbidden Forest, from a wall that previously had been bare stone, he knew that the enchantments on that window would have required as much intricate spellwork as the ceiling of the Great Hall to create. He turned his gaze back towards the subject of his thoughts, and the short, slim wizard looked back, his face a map of emotions. There was a smudge of ink on his brow. His robes were over-large and worn away in places, they looked like replicas of something Lupin would have worn. Yet his fragile features were so gripping; they drew the eyes: the pale expanse of his throat, the high cheekbones, dark eyelashes. 

      The maps — Severus thought desperately—he couldn’t afford to contemplate those softly pursed lips, or how cute Harry looked in those ridiculous robes — forget that —get back to the point!  
      “I assumed that you would be returning to the Forest for this period... and that it might be a good time to work on the map together.”  
      He didn’t need to hear the words, of Harry’s response, to realise that his carefully stacked blocks were crashing to the floor. Everything that he said or did to diffuse the situation just accelerated the collapse until the point that Harry roared —“You never cared about how difficult my life was in the past! —In fact YOU went out of your way to make _my _life difficult!!”__

___Severus rose to his feet. His emotions swooped and dived like a seabird in the breeze, but he kept his face impassive and met Harry’s furious gaze. ”How_  
can I possibly make amends if everything I do, or say, is  
understood as evil in intent?” 

__Harry blinked, and some of the anger left his expressive features. “You want to —make amends?”  
      Severus bit back a smile at the absolute shock in Harry’s thin face. “Whether I want to or not, you’ll never know if you keep hating me with the same vigour as you did when you were a child...” He didn’t wait to see Harry’s reaction but made his way to his own quarters, to spend his Christmas holidays uneasy and mostly alone..._ _

__———_ _

__After that, and the other disastrous encounters that they continued to have, Severus had resigned himself to the fact that he seemed doomed to fall desperately and passionately in love with the one person most unlikely to return his affections. He hoped that time would weaken his passion... but it only increased it._ _

__When he received word from Hermione that Harry had sent a Patronus about the tunnel in the Forest, Severus felt his face drain of all colour. He was suddenly transported back to all those years ago, when Lily had been in danger — and he was too late to save her... in fact he had set her on the course that led to her death. He felt a desperate anguish that history could repeat in such a way._ _

__Throwing caution to the wind, he sped forward the timing of the confrontation in the Forest, and with the help of Hermione’s Deluminator, they tracked him. The actual battle between Galdran’s allies, the aurors, MLE officers, Severus and Hermione, were only a blur in his day. The moment that stood out with perfect clarity, was finding Harry being tortured by a sadist. Severus has never wanted to cast Avada Kedavra more than in that moment._ _

__As Harry passed into unconsciousness and Severus scooped up his limp body, a fierce realisation consumed him. He would love this man forever. It no longer mattered to him whether rejection and humiliation awaited him, as soon as Harry was healed, Severus would tell him the truth._ _


	19. Aftermath

      Awareness came slowly, and not very pleasantly. First were all the aches and twinges, then the dizziness, and last the consciousness of thought. Before he even opened his eyes Harry realized that someone must have cast healing spells and applied potions to his wounds. Memories flooded back—the dungeon in the stage coach, the array of torture devices, the excruciating cuts and burns, and Snape’s comment about timing.  
      Relief was Harry’s foremost emotion, then gratitude, and then a residual embarrassment that he didn’t understand and instantly dismissed. Snape had saved his life, and Harry owed him thanks. He opened his eyes, squinting against a shaft of sunlight. 

      He was lying on a soft pile of fabrics in the centre of the paved circle under the colorwood trees. There were people everywhere. Many of them were wearing the distinctive robes of Aurors. There was no sign of the stage coaches, but all of the people that he had seen in the shed, were bound and seated in groups of ten or so, overseen by Magical Law Enforcement officers. His eyes blurred and he closed them again.

      Something wet touched his lips. He swallowed, then gasped as liquid fire ignited its way down his throat, the harsh taste of distilled bristic with other herbs. He swallowed again, and his entire body glowed—even the aches diminished.  
      “Not too much,” a familiar voice warned.  
      The liquid went away. Harry opened his eyes again and twisted his head. The young woman holding him was tall and strong, with black hair worn in a coronet around her head. She flashed him a smile that gleamed whitely against her dark skin, capped the flask and dropped it on the ground.  
      “Oh, Harry,” said Hermione with a sigh.  
“What happened?” 

      “Help me sit up, hey ‘Mione?"  
      Once he was sitting upright, his vision cleared. His gaze immediately focused in on Snape, standing in the middle of the commotion, dressed in his usual robes, with a warm cloak around his shoulders and gloved hands. He appeared to be listening to five people talking at once. He issued quick instructions one by one, and they vanished in different directions.  
      Then he saw Harry, and his face relaxed slightly. Until that moment, Harry hadn’t realized he was tense. The people nearby fell silent as he strode across to stand before Harry. “One hundred stage coaches... nearly one hundred wizards and witches?” he said, one brow lifting. Harry shrugged, fighting against acute embarrassment.

      “How many, do you think, would have been too many for you to take on single-handed?” Snape asked, a faint smile hovering at the corners of his lips.  
“It was mostly an accident,” Harry said, trying to  
sound casual, though by then his face burned like someone had cast Incendio. ”Ten of them could trounce me as easy as a hundred. So my thinking was to talk them out of using the tunnel.”  
      Snape’s mouth was perfectly controlled, but his eyes narrowed with barely-hidden laughter as he said, “That won’t do, Harry Potter. I am very much afraid if you’re going to continue to attempt heroic measures you will have to make suitably heroic statements afterward—”  
      “If there is an afterward,” Harry muttered, and someone in the avidly watching group choked on a laugh.  
      “—such as are written in the finest of our histories.”  
      “Huh,” Harry said. “I guess I’ll just have to memorize a few proper heroic bombasts, rhymed in three places, for next time. And I’ll also remember to take a scribe to get it all down right.”  
      Snape smiled then—his grin genuine, sweet and heart stopping—the others laughed. They laughed much harder than the weak joke warranted, and Harry began to suspect that events had not been easy while he was unconscious. Looking at Snape’s smile was making his chest ache. “I’m sorry about all the trouble,” Harry said, his eye beginning to twitch. “It looks like you’ve got it all under control.”  
      Snape looked down at him unreadably. Then he nodded. “We do actually. In fact, things are to the point that I think we could leave the clean-up to these guys,” He gestured to the MLE crews. “I could take you back to your cabin for now, if you aren’t averse to traveling with me? I can fill you in on what’s happened...”  
Harry nodded, unable to speak. A young man came forward leading a Thestral by its bridle, Step, step, then Snape was next to him, and his arm slid round Harry.  
He picked him up and put him on the saddlebow of the thestral, then got into the saddle behind him. The world was revolving gently as he moved. Harry closed his eyes as they began to fly upward. The leathery wings beat steadily. Harry’s aching head rested against Snape’s shoulder. 

      They moved, slow at first, then faster. Sounds—birdcalls, the rustle of trees, the rush of water—were unnaturally clear. Close sounds, too: Snape’s breathing, the rapid tattoo of his heart. Scents: pine, Thestral, the perfume of late jasmine, sweat. Snape’s, not Harry’s, though he was clammy from his exertions and his earlier fear. The smell was not at all unpleasant. No, not at all. Harry fought against the urge to breathe in his scent, for his proximity was so reassuring. So warm. So…so compelling.  
      And then at last Harry knew what the unthinking part of himself had known for some time, making him dizzy with overwhelming sensation. He was acutely aware of the contours of Snape’s arms, the feel of his fingers through the heavy fabric of Harry’s robes; he realized, with a kind of hilarious despair, that he had at last managed to fall in love, or rather in lust, for how could it possibly be love with two people at the same time? And, his mind was in love with the Unknown. Surely that steady friendship, that meeting of minds, was the right kind of love for him. Not just the animalistic passion of desire. 

      Still, Harry kept his eyes closed, his cheek pressed against the rough wool of Snape’s cloak, glad that he had at least the duration of the ride in which to get control of his mental state—and also, he thought weakly (knowing it was weakness, but right then he did not care at all) to bask in the fire of his proximity, a dear and burning brightness he would never again feel.

      Time passed, and eventually he smelled the familiar scents of his garden, and his home.

      Snape said, almost too soft to hear, “Harry, are you awake?”  
      “Yes.”  
      “Can I help you down?”  
      How to act, to sound normal? All his emotions as well as his senses had kindled to flame. Only pride stayed steadfast. Pride would keep his voice even, would reason for him, would not betray him.  
      “Yes.” Because Snape stayed silent, Harry babbled on, “I’m really sorry, I shouldn’t have followed the tunnel. I know it was worse than useless what I did but—”  
      “It was not your fault,” Snape interrupted him, low and quite sharp. “The blame was mine, from the beginning.” He hesitated, then helping him off the Thestral and into the cabin, he busied himself lighting a fire and boiling steeped leaf, whilst Harry sank down onto the couch. “I did not tell you everything that I knew because I thought it would put you at risk.”

      He passed Harry a steaming cup. Striving for normalcy, he sipped at his drink, until Snape faced him. “Questions?”  
      “Of course! What happened?”  
      Snape sat down in the rocking chair. “Hermione received your message and came straight to me.” He gestured in a lazy circle. “That part was easy enough. She yelled at me for quite a while over all that I had concealed. I had hoped that you would simply help the Hill Folk go into hiding, and the rest could be resolved without you.”  
     “You don’t trust me—”

      Snape made a sharp, negative movement with his hand, but his voice was soft. “It’s not about trust. But the information that I had, wasn’t mine to disclose. There was an undercover auror working the case, and he has been in long term espionage situations for such a long time that... well... even his training was a secret. And many cases rely on him remaining undercover...”

      It seemed like a day for unexpected revelations. Everything seemed to fall into place. “Draco Malfoy is an Auror?” Harry suddenly exclaimed.

     Snape sighed, “how are you so oblivious about so many things — and yet seem to always find out the dangerous secrets?”

     Harry flushed. ”I won’t reveal that to anyone, I might seem unreliable and odd... but I — I have grown up a lot in the last ten years... “ and here at last were the personal issues that had lain between them for so long.

     Snape lifted a hand. “I have noticed that you’ve grown up...” He gave Harry a rueful half smile as he started pulling off his gloves, one finger at a time. When the right one was off he said, “This might be one of the more spectacular of my mistakes— but I would like to have full honesty between us.” With a last tug, he pulled off the left, gold glinted on his hand. As he laid aside the gloves and turned back to face Harry, the glint resolved into a ring on his middle finger, a gold ring carved round with laurel leaves in a particular pattern. And set in the middle was an ekirth that glittered like a nightstar.  
     “That’s my ring,” Harry said, numb with shock.

     "You bought it,” he replied. “But now it’s mine.”

     Harry’s primary reaction was shock. Snape couldn’t be the Unknown... Horror and relief coursed through him simultaneously. Both of his eyes were twitching, his fingers tapped erratically. He opened his mouth but no noise came out. Snape’s black eyes were intensely focused on him. “You don’t believe I’m sincere...” He raised his wand. “Expecto Patronum!”

     Harry’s face and body went still. 

     Instead of the doe he was expecting, a large snowy female owl erupted from the tip of his wand. She, flew, gleaming pale white, around the room, and alighted on Harry’s shoulder. She gave Harry an affectionate nip with her beak just as Hedwig used to do, and spoke softly in Snape’s voice: “I am entirely sincere.” Before the Patronus dissolved in a puff of smoke.

     Tears welled in Harry’s eyes. There was too much to say, but nothing he could say. As it turned out, he didn’t have to try. He raised his gaze to Snape’s face. He was smiling, full blown, his severe features transformed into something warm, desirable and breathtakingly attractive. As usual, he’d been able to read Harry’s face easily. By then his blood was drumming in his ears like distant thunder.  
     “The first time,” he said, “when I collected on our wager, I was so angry with myself for my lack of control... that I ended up speaking cruelly and hurting you.”  
     He moved slowly towards Harry. “Can you forgive me? Not just for what I said that night you visited my room... but all the thoughtless words I’ve spoken to you since our very first meeting.”

     Harry nodded, wordlessly, Snape’s hands sliding round him and cool midnight-colored hair drifting against his cheek. Then softly, so softly, the brush of lips against his brow, his eyelids, and then his lips. Once, twice, thrice, but no closer. The sensations—like starfire—that glowed through Harry chased away all thoughts save one, to close that last distance between them.  
Harry locked his fingers round Snape’s neck and pulled his face down so that their lips could finally meet.


	20. Sparks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The slash of this chapter is a remix of moments from The Darkling Thrush, a lovely novel by Josh Lanyon. 
> 
> ———
> 
> __  
> “Who can ever know what turns the spark into flame? Vidanric’s initial interest in me might well have been kindled by the fact that he saw my actions as courageous, but the subsequent discovery of passion, and the companionship of mind that would sustain it, seemed as full of mystery as it was of felicity. As for me, I really believe the spark had been there all along, but  
>  I had been too ignorant—and too afraid—to recognize it.”  
> ~ ‘Meliara’ in Crown Duel by Sherwood Smith

      Harry didn’t want that kiss to ever stop. Snape didn’t seem to, either. His — tracing down the curve of Harry’s jaw…throat…collarbone…

      Harry stood slowly, drawing Snape up with him. His body still ached, but the echoes of pain were nothing to the bright, incandescent pleasure of touch, of skin on skin. 

      He stepped back, breathing ragged, hand threaded through Snape’s, and tugged him shyly toward the bedroom. Undressing each other slowly, Snape eased him down into the cloud of bedding. His pale skin came alive with goosebumps where Harry’s fingers stroked him. There was a shaky, contained passion in his taut body. Gently kissing the fading scars of the wounds that had been inflicted that day, Snape made his way over every part of Harry’s body.  
      The feel of that went through Harry’s body like an electric jolt. He arched up.He wondered if he was really hearing Snape say in a rough, emotional voice, “I’ve thought of you every day for the past eighteen months.”  
      Snape smelled dark and earthy— a bit like the steeped leaf and a bit like the forest and a lot like himself. Harry’s body yielded to the press of his tongue, and that slick, intimate sucking.

      Time seemed to lengthen and curl lazily around them. Snape’s body was all muscle and bone and elegant scroll patterns of ink black hair. Desperately, Harry backed up against him. There was a sharp intake of breath from behind him. Soft lips pressed against the back of his neck. “Are you sure?” There was a tentative tenderness in Snape’s voice.

      “I’m sure!” Harry said breathlessly, turning his head so that he caught Snape’s lips in an awkward but passionate side-on kiss.       The blankets and duvet puffed gently outwards as they burrowed into the bed together. Mouths meeting in a long sweet kiss. Bodies intertwined. Time stood still. And there they lay, naked and complete, hearts beating as one.  
      But after a time, Harry discovered the drumming sound he heard was not his heart, it was his fingers, tapping out a pattern of anxious denial on Snape’s shoulders. His mind was rushing through the past year of encounters with Snape—this time from, as much as Harry was able, his perspective.  
      This was not an altogether pleasurable exercise. One eye began to twitch, and he moved back from Snape feeling contrite and thoroughly miserable. He shuddered at the memories.  
      Snape flicked him one of those assessing glances. Then he smiled, a real smile of humor and tenderness.  
      “I knew it,” he said. “I knew that it wouldn’t take long til you managed to see everything as your fault, and you’d be drooping under the weight.”

      “It doesn’t make sense. How can it be true?” Harry asked. Snape rose gracefully, and without answering right away, went about the business of making two large mugs of hot chocolate. Harry watched his elegant naked body as he moved, still trying to process the impossible thought of Snape loving him all this time.

      Snape returned to the bed and passed a large mug to Harry who hiccupped, snorted in a deep breath, and with an attempt at the steadying influence of laughter, added, “From the way I’ve acted around you the last eighteen months, I’ve been about as pleasant to be around as a—a flobberworm! Or a blast-ended skrewt.”

      “At times,” he agreed. “But I take our wretched beginning as my own fault. Had I not treated you so badly as a child... well, I merely could have befriended you—as others did. Of-course, at first I was in denial. When I finally realised that it wasn’t mere attraction, you had already decided that I still hated you. What a mess you made of my every scheme! Each day I had to re-form my plans.” He smiled, but Harry just groaned into his chocolate. “You thought that I despised your part in the war, but acknowledging your youth and inexperience at that time, you astounded me with your resourcefulness, self sacrifice and resilience.”  
      “I understand that you stopped hating me. And I even understand the attraction.” Harry sighed. “I do have one of my mum’s features after all. But that doesn’t explain the letters.”

      Snape’s black eyes, the irises so dark they merged into his dilated pupils. Harry wasn’t sure how he had never seen the softness there. The tenderness. It took his breath away.  
      “I don’t think I fell in love with you until I stopped seeing you as another James Potter... or even —your mother’s son. The day you flew into Minerva’s room, dripping wet, so anxious about being out of the forest... but so caring, so determined to overcome your own struggles to be there for her. In that moment I saw _you_! And the force of my attraction to you terrified me. I spent that first year hyper aware of your every movement. While you alternated between glaring at me and avoiding me!”

      Harry felt himself blushing, “I had no idea...”

    “Oh I could see that! But I couldn’t find a way to show you my interest, without scaring you away for ever. As that first year finished, it also became clear to me that you showed one face to all the rest of the world, and another to me. A friend gave me some excellent advice, that we needed a way to connect, without the pressure of the past... hence the letters...”

      Another worry occurred to Harry suddenly, “What about Aurora?”

      Snape looked slightly surprised. “What about her?”  
      “People—some people—put your names together. And,” he added firmly, “you yourself implied in your last letter that she has a chance with you. She’s smart, pretty, well respected. She suits you. Better than I would.”  
      Snape lifted his cup, and there was the eskirth ring gleaming on his finger. He’d worn that since he left Hogwarts to find Harry. He’d been wearing it, Harry thought, when he came upon the scene of Harry’s torturer in that stagecoach. Harry dropped his head and stared into his cup.  
      “Aurora,” Snape said, “is an old friend. We have taught together a very long time and though I am close to few people, she is one of them. We regard one another as brother and sister, a comfortable arrangement since neither of us has siblings.”

      Harry thought of that glance she’d given him when he’d spied on them in the courtyard. She had betrayed feelings that were not sisterly. But Snape hadn’t seen that look because his heart lay otherwhere. Harry pressed his lips together. She was worthy, but her love was not returned. Now he understood the reason she had always been so guarded around him. The honorable course for Harry would be to keep to himself what he had seen.  
      Snape had paused, watching him, then said, “As for her quality, it is undeniable. But you are overlooking your own qualities when you say she would be a better match for me. It wasn’t until Hermione told me not to lose hope, that I had any indication you might feel anything other than hatred for me... but as she chose the day after I thoroughly took advantage of you in my rooms, to tell me to have hope... well it wasn’t very encouraging to say the least! I was beginning to know you through the letters, but in person you showed me that same resentful face. Merlin! That day you came into the staff room late to breakfast, I was sitting there writing to you. What a coil!”  
      For the first time Harry laughed, though it was somewhat painful.  
      “I took the risk of implying there could be an attachment between myself and Aurora as a somewhat desperate attempt to bridge the two. When you stopped writing and walked around for two days looking lost, it was only other sign that I had any hope.” Until today, I had no idea if I would win you or not.”

      “Win me,” Harry repeated. “What a contest! Meanwhile you had all this to deal with.” Harry waved vaguely at the Forest around them, indicating the Galdran Merindar’s plots.  
      “It was a distraction,” Snape said with some of his old irony.

      Harry thought about himself finding the tunnel and the Alihotsy, but with disastrous results. It was only Snape’s actions that had saved him, and the aurors working to stop the theft of the colorwoods and outright massacre of the Hill Folk.  
      Again Snape gave Harry that characteristic assessing glance. “If you had not warned the Hill Folk. Many would have died. As it was, they were far away when the first coach of Alihotsy was burned. The auror teams were only able to step in then because there wasn’t enough information for lengthy convictions until the plan was enacted,” he said. “There is a long story to tell you, that we discovered about the Merindar-Malfoy duel all those years ago.”  
      “It’s good that we have a long time to talk then,” Harry said, trying for lightness.  
      Snape smiled back, then took both his hands. “I hope and trust we’ll have the remainder of our lives to talk all this over and compare misguided reactions, but for now...” he continued, “...shall we agree to a fresh beginning?”  
      Harry squeezed his hands back. “Agreed.”  
      “Then let me hear my name from you, just once, before we proceed further. My name, not a surname or a title.”  
      “Severus,” Harry said, and Severus kissed him again, then laughed.


End file.
